Who’s Afraid of the Dark? Navigating Everyday Fears in Adulthood

Do you ever have moments of feeling absolutely pathetically terrified? Overwhelmed with fear and foreboding and unable to woman up to face your demons? During the past fortnight, I’ve dealt with a couple of fear-laden experiences, and it’s made me think how much shame and embarrassment is often wrapped up in being frightened. Fear is a natural and biological reaction that we all experience. We are born with two innate fears: the fear of falling and the fear of loud sounds, with so called ‘natural fears’ – snakes, spiders, the dark developing in our youth as a result of both our environment and conditioning. Fear keeps us safe, prompting the fight or flight response. Some people are genetically predisposed to seek thrills, others (like me) still can’t watch Scream (1996).

But there’s also narrative that by the time we hit mid-life we are supposed to have gone through the valley and come out the other side into the bright sunshine of audacity having mastered fear in general. For sure, there are fears I’ve conquered in the past four decades, proper bone tingling, stomach churning terrors that used to give me dreadheart. I’ve done a TedTalk, I’ve written a book with lots of personal experiences which I’m sure many people would see as frightfully fearful. I’ve birthed two babies, both drugged and un-drugged, I’ve changed careers and stared failure down the barrel of the gun more times than I can count. All of these experiences have overcome specific fears, some dangerous (death in childbirth) others a threat to the esteem (failing catastrophically at public speaking in front of a large audience). But in tandem, a whole host of my other fears have escaped, winnowing down the sides, evading notice until they’ve built into things which make me catch my breath, often coming back into the rearview, even when I thought they had been quashed forever.

One of those is making telephone calls. Picking up the phone used to be something I did honestly, 40 times a day. I called samples in from all across the world, chased them, hunting them down like some kind of sartorial stalker for years. I called 70 fashion houses to confirm catwalk tickets every season, I spoke in broken French and Italian down the line with gusto and vim (see far right picture above). I had no qualms about it. But then something happened, time passed and today I struggle to dial a number to check on my curry order. When I find I have to call someone for pretty much anything, I feel my chest constrict and the heat rise. I make excuses, I try and find a way around it. I even—the shame—sometimes ask my boyfriend to do it for me. Literally WTF. As mentioned before: pretty pathetic.

I’ve just come back from two days skiing at a friend’s beyond-fantasy chalet (if Carlsberg made them etc etc) and even though I was mostly on children’s slopes and supine green runs, my blood turned icy cold several times over the course of 48 hours. I tried not to think of avalanches and what would happen if I actually didn’t manage to turn this time, while simultaneously scanning through intrusive images of what it would look like if I couldn’t find the edge of my left ski. Skiing is one of those challenges that looks mostly physical but is actually mostly about what’s going on in your mind. I’m by no means experienced, but I know the feeling of being top-level terrified stuck in a snowstorm up a mountain on my own at 4.15pm with about 7 minutes to get to the ski lift before I’d presumably get abandoned to frostbite and the night. I’ve fallen badly and hurt myself before too.

Skiing isn’t just a made-up anxiety; it presents a real and present danger. I hadn’t been up a gondola for 12 years (lol) and even then, I was only marginally better on skis than I am on a bike. So, when my friend invited me, I really tried to come up with reasons not to go. There are obviously many, many of those. Children, money, time being the top three. Taking two days out of your life can generate anxiety in itself when you aren’t in the habit of doing so. But there was also something inside me which said I really needed to face the belly of it down. Dodging incredible opportunities because they give you butterflies keeps you firmly in the comfort zone and only builds fear and anxiety. And when it grows in one area, it’s amazing how it can start the rot in others.

The problem with harbouring and feeding fears by changing your behaviour to accommodate them is that they start to eat away at your independence and self-assurance. Because even as children we viewed others with fears as scaredy cats or chickens or lily-livered and we have been raised to believe that phobias of nearly every shade are borderline tragic, when we notice them making incursions into our psyche, it’s very hard not to feel a wee bit ashamed. A girlfriend of mine recently went through an experience – don’t laugh – with a local Tom cat, now forever known as Scarface Claw. Walking down my street with her two mini dogs, she was set upon by an abnormally large black feline. Jumping up at her and her dogs, first on the street then latterly inside my house, where she sought refuge, the cat would just not give up. Every couple of minutes its hysterical looking whiskery face would appear at the window or the door, like a thing possessed. Was it rabid? Being treated with cruelty? Understandably, after that experience, she was very wary of walking in the neighbourhood and always avoided my street when she was with her pups. Recounting this story, everyone and anyone who heard it squealed with laughter. Scared of a cat? Like a pet? Was it Halloween, hahahahha? No-one likes to feel silly and fragile, but friends and family en masse made her kittyphobia a punchline. This week we learnt that the same cat had actually been terrorising multiple adults (including fully grown men), children and animals on our street after having a stroke and the case was being investigated by authorities. Scarface Claw was actually dangerous, so my friend was vindicated. But without a shadow, someone will use it to tease her down the line, because it’s culturally acceptable to meet any kind of admission of fear with derision. And, you know, it was a cat.

I scare easily and often. There are comedies, I would personally define as horrors and I will never ever go on a ‘big ride’ because for me, that is not an amusement. I also do some pretty stupid things to scare myself, including most recently trying to move a leather sofa down a flight of stairs on my own. For 45 minutes, I was in a state of acute panic as I used my body weight to lever said sofa on the edge of a step atop a long stairwell. That feeling of, ‘this is how I die: in a staircase in Kilburn’, screaming out for help at the top of your lungs while knowing there is no-one there to get you out of the situation but yourself.  It’s been a while since I had that pulsating surge of adrenaline complete with trembling knees, chattering teeth, off your tits terrified. I have absolutely zero inclination to ever feel that way again, I cannot fathom why anyone would put themselves intentionally into that state.

In saying that, the avoidance of fear has limited me and has stopped me moving forward in one very demonstrable way: driving. Long-time followers will know of my tribulations, but for the uninitiated, here’s a précis. I didn’t learn to drive as a teenager or in my 20s due to a lack of funds. Lessons are bloody eye-watering, especially when you need as many as me. By the time I got to the point where I had enough cash to fund it (about 33), I had developed a mortal fear, but to give myself credit, I have faced that fear a lot. I’ve gone through phases where I try so incredibly hard to pass and then back away after some kind of scare (just in a lesson, or through failing my test—the last one I took in 2020, I ballsed up in the test centre itself). I do feel pathetic about it, but I cannot say I haven’t tried. I’ve had way over 100 hours of lessons, 6 different instructors and I’ve passed my theory four times meaning it has expired on that many occasions. My big issues are a lack of spatial awareness, a dodgy mind to body connection so I confuse my left and right feet with the pedals (I obviously only drive automatics) and a horrendous, unrelenting sense of fear for my safety and the safety of others.  I cannot think of a single thing I would like to do less, nothing that would freeze my body into rigor mortis more.

And yet. On the top of one of those slopes in France, I made myself a little promise. If I could manage to get through these two days on tiny slivers of plastic flying down a mountain (ok, it felt like I was flying), then I probably could get back in a car and try again. At least for one lesson. Like many of the things I’m anxious to do, I have done it before and I’m sure I will do it again. Having multi-phobias about everyday things (driving, making telephone calls, cats etc) may be un poco embarrassing, but we all have our internal fights. I’m not scared of heights or flying; not scared to travel alone or dance in public. I can cope with needles and blood (it has been known to make me faint, but whatever) and dentists and pain. I’m pretty ok with all animals including rodents and insects, as in I could pick them up with my bare hands. Ultimately, I don’t doubt my courage, there are just a few significantly inconvenient chinks in the armour. But since I made it back post après, I suppose it means I’ll be swotting up on the highway code again. The improvement a driving license would bring to my life would be huge and everyone says I won’t look back. My advice however, is to keep an eye out in your rearview, because something potentially terrifying may, very soon, be coming your way.