At four years old, standing on the playground, I knew right away what the feeling was. Fear. My legs shook. My tongue felt like it was tied in fifty knots that I couldn’t undo. Clamminess took over my hands, making them bead with sweat. All I was told was to “go make friends” but I knew I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know any of these kids at all, let alone enough to ask them to play with me. I’d rather sit by myself and draw pictures in the sand. That was exactly what I did. Swirls of the gritty substance were all around me. Maybe they were supposed to actually resemble something. No one knows for sure. My mom was going to be really angry at me. Sand was caked under my fingernails and sprinkled all over my clothes. I heard her call my name. Oh no.

That isn’t the only incident where fear has impacted my life. I would be too lucky if it was. Fear has shaken me to the core many times. Let’s talk about the time when I was eight years old. We were going to Cedar Point. Now you might be thinking, “Oh man! How exciting!”. But I was not. Roller Coasters terrified me. I’m not even sure why I was really taken on this trip. We arrived to the park and I was immediately in awe. There were so many colorful tracks twisting around in the sky like the noodles I had had the night before. I heard blood-curdling screams constantly. It felt like I was going to melt onto the cement like a popsicle with how hot it was. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Excited? Not quite. Scared? Definitely.

We stood in line for the Wildcat, which seemed like it took hours. My uncle said he was leaving to go to the restroom as soon as we were boarding. He called out right before he left, “Make sure you steer the cart on the track!” I was not expecting this. I was already scared. Uh oh. This won’t be good. (I apparently wasn’t smart enough to realize no one steered their carts anyway.)  My cousin Michael and I get assigned a cart and we strap ourselves in. Mind you, he’s six and thrilled to be on this ride. I felt my breath quickening and the track seemed 80 miles long. My hands were sweating so badly I could barely keep a grip on the lap bar. The cart starts to move. Click. Click. Click. Approaching the hill, I realize I cannot get off. We go up, up, up to the top. As the cart starts going down the hill I feel all of the air leave my lungs in the form of a scream. I don’t remember much else about the ride besides it scared me half to death. Fear is the only thing I remember feeling that whole day, and I’m positive I didn’t ride any other roller coaster until I was 15. On a more serious note, fear is a feeling I’ve felt often since then, in more important ways than being scared of a ride.

The same year I turned eight was one of the worst years of my life. Everything fell apart. It might seem silly for me to say that my life fell apart at the ripe age of eight but there’s good reasoning for it. I remember sitting in my stepbrothers’ room. They were quite young. Blaze was two and Brandon wasn’t even one. We were playing with fake hardware tools. I had to go out to the living room to get the plastic hammer. When I was reaching down to grab it, I saw headlights pull up in the driveway. This was strange because everyone was home and my mom didn’t  say anyone was coming over. I thought about it for a good thirty seconds and returned to my play with the kids. A crash echoes through the house. Before I can process it, I turn around and a man I don’t know is standing in front of me. He is tall and muscular, but I can’t see his face. An aura of intimidation comes off of him. He represents the dark and all things scary. He is unknown. His voice sounds like thunder, loud and booming. “Get in the closet.” He screams at me. I don’t quite understand. Being a stubborn eight year old, I just stare at him. Who is he to tell me what to do? He pulls an object out of his pocket that is unfamiliar to me. He holds it to my forehead and repeats his words. I figure now that I should listen. I go into the closet and he throws the babies in with me. The door is latched and we are stuck in the dark, left with nothing.

Going into the second grade with a threatening experience under my belt didn't help. I remember being too afraid to sleep. The fear felt like it was a fifty-ton weight crushing all of my bones. The fear my counselor brought me every time I had to walk down to her room because school was too much. I wouldn’t do anything, I couldn’t. I let my fear hold me in place like shackles hold a prisoner. I am 16 now and I am aware of what the situation was. I am aware that the intruder placed a gun against my forehead. I am aware that I have been letting fear control me. It was a tough situation, yes. In the end, I have learned a great thing: Never be too scared to live.