What am I most afraid of?

When I was a kid, one of my earliest memories was something I’m actually not sure happened. I was trapped in a dark room, but it wasn’t really a room. It was a dark, lonely place, where I couldn’t see, speak, or hear. I recall neither the event nor the immediate reaction I had, but somewhere deep down in the back of my mind is a horror that not only seemed utterly horrifying but also feels familiar.

We moved around a lot when I was a kid. For the first three years of my life, my mother raised me as a single parent, one who, despite her best efforts, couldn’t be present for some of my formative years because she worked on a cruise ship—spending months away while I was left to my grandparents or aunts. Being passed down to different relatives every contract, another house, another province—I experienced a lot of new fears this way:

Dogs. I was… terrified of dogs. Not anymore, but sometimes the sight of some dogs still triggers an instinctive Fight or Flight response in me.

Heights. I’m petrified of heights. There’s not much to be said about it except vomit, because that’s the only thing coming out of my mouth when confronted by heights.

Ghosts. I never really saw any, and I’ve lost the capacity to believe in them by this point, but to say I wasn’t scared of ghosts as a child, is to deny the fact that I once ran an entire kilometer to an uncle’s house in complete darkness just because my cousins who were supposed to be keeping me company (because my parents are sailors and would leave me completely alone in an empty house for months) forced me to watch the original Ju-On: The Curse even though I absolutely insisted not to. To a kid, family can sometimes be your worst enemy.

But the dark. The dark creeps me out. It wasn’t fear of monsters, or even the fear of the unknown, at least not anymore, I think. It’s the darkness itself that haunts me. That creeping nothingness that could swallow you whole. The void that reminds me of a horrifying string in my brain that’s waiting to be pulled. The thing that I’m most afraid of.

Growing up meant growing in knowledge, and with it, a whole new host of fears unlocked:

Being hit by a bus. Blame Final Destination for that one.

Sharks. Or tigers. Or crocodiles. Take your pick.

Natural disasters. I never really noticed earthquakes before when I was a kid, but the thought of sudden, unavoidable emergencies (because… how do you avoid the ground, right?) freaked me out. 

The ocean, or water in general. I couldn’t swim. Go figure.

Strangers, or more specifically, interacting with them. Intermittent parents and infrequent guardians raised me. For quite some time, the only people I could interact with were myself and, sometimes, some cousins. I remember having some friends, but I never really built strong connections, not truly, until high school.

Failure. This was the first time I felt the pressure of being gifted, or rather, “gifted.” I was a bright kid, and I cruised through the majority of my childhood, never having to study, at least not truly. When my effortless grasp of fundamental theories and stellar memory began to fail me at the tail end of elementary school, I was left with a reputation to maintain and none of the tools required to put in the work.

A specific fear of seeing logs on a truck bed. Again, that’s Final Destination’s fault.

Plane rides. I never rode one until I was an adult, and so kept the fear longer than I should’ve. Not really a fear anymore, but more of an uncomfortable thought. And there would be a lot more.

The eve of adulthood flickered on like the light of a new adventure, and with it came the anxieties, the doubts, and panic:

Expectations, specifically mine. I’ve failed a couple more times now, true, and I’ve gotten used to others’ disappointment. Yet, the only frustrated voice I couldn’t silence was my own.

Connection, because I didn’t understand it. I spent my childhood in different places, making friends with people I hardly remember anymore. I had no brothers nor sisters, at least none that I knew of. I believed that no matter how strongly I felt for others, I would never be their strongest companion because it wasn’t a bond forged in childhood, something everyone else seemed to have, but me.

Love. It was pain, and it was pleasure. I reveled in the latter and handed out the former like bitter gifts. I quailed at the devotion expected from me and delighted at the despair I caused.

Vulnerability. I chafed under angst and dreaded true recognition, because I thought no one could love someone with such a broken idea of relationships. Friends came and went, some pushed, others neglected.

Waking up, for I didn’t like what I opened my eyes to. I lived for the present, quelling the sinking feeling of tomorrow with the noise of the nights.

Identity, because I couldn’t seem to find mine.

With experiences came understanding, with understanding came pain, with pain came regrets, and with regrets, true adulthood:

Loss. I’ve found love, but I can’t seem to find a comforting enough assurance in my head that I won’t lose it.

Time. I’m halfway through the journey of life, and everything has gotten faster. I’ve started to see the waste I left behind me.

Death. Paranoia stalks me, visions of nuclear fire in my dreams. My body is starting to give, something that would’ve been unthinkable to my young self back then.

Oblivion. I fear memory, or rather the loss of it. I fear forgetting the people I’ve loved. The people I’ve hated. The life I once resented but am just realizing is the only thing I could ever expect. I’m horrified at the thought of being forgotten. Of the thought that I mattered to nobody.

Meaning, because I can’t decide what’s scarier: life has meaning, but one I wouldn’t find until it’s too late? Or there is no meaning to be found, and life is just a brutal waste of time?

And the darkness. The darkness that lay at the heart of it all. I despair at the thought of dying alone. Of having no one to be there for me, for one last time. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound?

If I were born alone, lived alone, and died alone—like my earliest memories, in a cold, dark room—did I truly live?