I am an addict. More adverse than my addictions to social media, coffee and chocolate, is my perverse and pervasive addiction to vigilance; my addiction to fear. As early as I can remember, I have felt an insatiable drive to ward off danger. As a little girl, it was the danger of losing those I love to unexpected accidents or to voluntary abandonment. When my mother was a few minutes late coming home from work, I quickly imagined she had been struck by a car or even worse that she did not love me enough to come home. I laid awake at night envisioning the horrors of an imminent nuclear holocaust. Each shadowy bend of the large oak tree outside my bedroom window on windy nights meant it would blow loose and thrust into our apartment, crushing us all. I checked, and checked again, before bed that the deadbolt and chain on our apartment door were locked as I was certain an intruder had plans to burst in and murder my mother, father, our cranky yet beloved cat Joe and me.
There was danger at school, too. The years that I was in school predate the very palpable fear of active shooters that the current generation is burdened with. My school years also predated the now commonplace anti-bullying legislation that school systems in the United States are expected to adhere. My early years in school were rampant with the belief so prevalent in our country before the 1999 Columbine school massacre, that “kids will be kids” and particularly “boys will be boys.” And so, though I was harassed in a “daily special” of creative ways by boys in my grammar and then middle school, every adult witness turned away. I was riddled with embarrassment and guilt for not being accepted by boys. I was utterly silent about being called ugly and fat, about getting hit in the face with a pie on the school bus, about being called weird and a “hippy” for wearing different skirts and shoes than my peers, about being asked whether I thought being raped would hurt.
My tears came easily. And once they came, they kept coming. I had no ability to hide how much the insults hurt. Each time, I stood before my attacker a quivering and vulnerable target. As is true of all sadists, no matter their age or other individual traits, my tormentors relished seeing my pain so exposed. My tears were their easily achieved daily endgame.
Each school day morning I awoke with my heart racing and the feeling that my bowels were dropping out into the toilet. As I brushed my teeth, my eyes surveyed my face in the mirror to affirm that what they said about me was true. “Am I ugly? If I am ugly, how ugly am I?” For a moment, as if covered by a forgiving misty camera filter, I could see some beauty flickering. My gentle brown eyes were kind though a bit asymmetrical, my lips were a supple pink, the wispy baby hairs around the edge of my scalp softened my hairline. The brief moment of feeling beautiful faded as I heard a voice, “Whatchya doing ugly?!”
There was danger in trusting. I allowed myself the vulnerability of orgasm with my first high school boyfriend. Like every teen love, it was supposed to last forever. But he easily became disinterested when my virginity would not yield easily and he complained to one of my friends that I was “too tight” before he broke up with me. Decades later, after I had given my body to motherhood twice, my husband at the time would complain that I was “too loose.” Both while married and then later divorced and single, I would find myself partnered to men who would compare my sexuality and physical attributes to those of porn performers and sex workers. Even my own mother was capable of betraying my father. Legitimately unhappy in her marriage, she began writing love letters with an old friend who she had met again at their high school reunion. They fell in love secretly before she disclosed to my father that it was too late. It was necessary to stay on guard.
Like most addictions, mine took hold insidiously. With each attack, each disappointment, each betrayal, it became easier to expect bad things to happen than to be caught off guard. Even a small joy became shadowed by its imminent end. It felt easier to stay down than to keep getting up. A perverted and pervasive addiction to vigilance. An addiction to standing guard, checking and checking again, always expecting the next big disaster.
Keeping watch has not been good for me or those who love me. It has stolen many a joyful moment. It has caused me to overzealously examine trustworthy people and situations with an unnecessary scrupulousness. It has robbed me of peaceful sleep, invaded my dreams, caused me panic attacks, heart palpitations, and distorted thinking. Most significantly, my vigilance has taken me out of the present more times than I could ever possibly count.
Today I am prepared to be caught off guard. This is a contradiction, of course. If one is prepared, then one is not caught off guard, right? But one is never really prepared, even when one believes one is. There are always events or situations that occur that one did not expect. So preparedness, when it comes to human existence, is an illusion. But I am an addict. I am addicted to the illusionary feeling that I am ready to ward off attacks. I am strong. I can endure trauma. I can endure disappointment. I can endure discomfort. And yet, despite this knowing, I am still addicted to fear. Like any addict, there is a compulsion within me to repeat a familiar behavior, though it has proven to do me harm. It will take constant awareness to let go of vigilance. It will take vigilance against my vigilance.
Donate to Help Fight Bullying:
Stomp Out Bullying https://www.stompoutbullying.org/
The Anti-Defamation League https://www.adl.org/
Donate to Help Fight Sexual Assault:
National Sexual Violence Resource Center https://www.nsvrc.org/donate
Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network https://www.rainn.org/about-rainn
Mental Health Support:
Suicide Prevention Hotline https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline