Scary times are here again. That frost on the wind that reminds us of our poor shivering ancestors hoping that the sun would come back again this year and that the wolves might stay away just one more night. The shadows around us get deeper; we think of the voices that aren't voices. The thoughts calling on the wind, sweet as a Halloween treat. The days of the dead, one might say.
Fear: five years old and watching Laurel and Hardy Murder Case. Crackly 1930s, cheap, not one of their best. Something in the over-exposed shadows and the old dark house mystery of it strikes more fear than I thought possible. Their clowning doesn't seem funny. It seems to be the result of hysteria, babbling with slapstick in the face of the unspeakable. I spend the rest of the night with my fingers jammed into my ears, terrified in case I heard the sound of footsteps in an empty house.
It's on YouTube. It's rubbish.
 |
| ...and then I found this picture and ah, it all makes sense now. |
What are we scared of the most? Being alone? I wrote earlier this year about my fear of being forgotten, my attempt to embrace that. I failed in that venture, happy to admit. I don't want to be forgotten, not while I'm alive, not by my loved ones. I won't abdicate my place in your thoughts. Nor do I wish to be the sole focus. In that, I found a bit more love for myself.
Fear: Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (1970s version). Tiny creatures infest an old house. They call out to the mother of the little nuclear family moving in there. Whisper to her. Such tiny horrors, gremlin beasts running around the dark corners. What do they want?
Simple. They want to change her. And they succeed. The polyester mom, in her A-line maxi becomes something quite different, that we never see. We have to be content with just hearing her altered voice from the shadows. She changes. She becomes something new and awful. And not safe. Not at all.
I'm so scared of it, nine years old and so scared of it. And so envious.
 |
| I mean, I COULD read a subtext in here if I wanted to. |
I run away quite a lot. It takes huge effort of will not to and I have learned to be brave. Growing up, always watching my back, I learned survival patterns. As an adult, I'm only just realising that I still watch my back, all the time. A partner asked me how I have fun and I couldn't answer, because I knew that I find it hard to let go and enjoy; I'm always watching for the wolves. Always wondering when they'll strike. The sound of breaking glass at 330AM, the sudden commotion in the cinema. The man in the bar who keeps staring and I don't think it's because he likes my nail varnish.
Fear: a nightmare. The first one I can remember. I'm in a wonderful happy place. The Muppets are there; I love that show. This is wonderful. Suddenly, they all grow silent, sombre. A door opens; it leads out into a huge dark field, night, cold air. A carnival or funfair. At the entrance, a booth, the open section surrounded by lightbulbs like a backstage makeup mirror. A man, his face slicked with greasepaint, wearing a black and white striped suit and bow tie, grins from within. THIS IS THE CARNIVAL! he screams. I am terrified. I can't move. I must wake up.
Oh no, he says. You can't wake up. There's loads of ways I can stop that.
Fear had become such a part of me that I didn't notice it anymore. Like the sound of trains so regular that they become part of the day, so you don't even recognise true silence when you hear it. I simply assumed that everyone else felt the same dread at every movement, every new face.
I decided that this Would Not Do.
My diagnosis of ASC helped. I knew that my senses were working at a ridiculously high level, but my brain still operated on standard human threat response and the two were clashing. I learned to manage it, slowly and painfully. I still am. Likewise, standing up and telling people I don't know just exactly who I am and how I identify, that helped too. No-one killed me. That tired teenage voice, reminding me about getting beaten up for wearing purple, could finally get some sleep.
I made mistakes. I was scared. Scared of asking questions and having conversations that were so important, hurting people by my confused silence. Scared of change. Scared of loss. There is so much rebuilding to be done, repairing the damage that the terror did to my world.
I listen to my own internal ghost stories. Let them scare me. Understand them. Hold my ghosts close.
Fear: The Mummy. Universal Studios, Boris Karloff. Said to be an arch and creepy film. I plead to be allowed to stay up, to watch it. Finally, I'm allowed, sitting on my bed with a tiny black and white portable. I have to twist the analogue aerial in the right direction to get a picture on it. Swirling and buzzing, an image built of tiny monochrome swarms.
Karloff. That face. Those eyes.
I'm not scared.
I want to be him. The Mummy is not terrifying. He is driven by love. He is noble. He walks in the dark and seeks out his heart's desire. I am enraptured. No fear at all. Not the rapacious, aristocratic Dracula or the mindless Wolfman or the victimised Frankenstein ('s monster). This is the absence of fear. This is the moment of light mind, of being entranced. Body relaxes. Some prototype mindfulness born from ancient celluloid, creaky transmission towers at midnight and the belief in magic.
I wrap the sheets around me close and whisper ancient Hollywood spells to myself.
And I'm not scared at all.
Happy Halloween.
