I’m afraid of the stairs. You know, steps. The things you walk up and down.
My fear of the steps has become somewhat clinical. If I can’t walk down the stairs while holding the rail or bracing myself hand against the wall, then I just can’t do it. The fear is so overwhelming that it literally paralyzes me. At the top of the stairs, trying to figure out how to hold on.
You see, I’m convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will surely fall. And become injured. Or die. The conviction with which I know this is almost unparalleled.
This is how I live.
I don’t know exactly when I developed this fear. When you come out of a breakdown, the world is a different place. I search my mind for the moment when I could no longer bear to step down and I can’t find it. But that doesn’t change anything. It’s not like a world gives you a pass. No, the world says “Get the fuck out of the way. I’ve got places to go.” The world, for the most part, does not understand.
That doesn’t make my fear any less. It just means I need more time. Or to turn around. I need to figure out how to try again.