The Fear That Colors My Life

When you are seventeen, you know almost nothing, but you think you are grown up and know everything there is to know.

I was a child in a man's body...

The thinking I was all grown up led me to volunteer for the US Army one week out of high school. (June 1959) Uncle Sam loved me; he knew I was still a work in progress - even if I didn't. He knew I could be molded into whatever weapon or piece of machinery he needed. Despite living a hard-scrabble life and thinking I had a plan - he knew I was still a baby.

I sailed through basic training and advanced training - it was a breeze. I earned a Sharpshooters badge even though I had never fired a gun until we were put out on the rifle range. After several months of training, I was assigned to the 29th Signal Battalion in Karlsruhe, Germany. I was finally going to get my first view and taste of the world. Then...

Something bigger and stronger than I gripped my senses. There was no escape.

We were marched to the airfield and put on an airplane - kindly remember that I had never flown before, had never even seen an airplane except the occasional one that flew high in the sky over the little mountain valley where I had spent those first seventeen growing years. Now it was Ft. Gordon, Ga. To Ft. Dix, New Jersey, and on to Frankfurt, Germany.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I faced as the airplane roared down the runway and took to the air. I was terrified. Years later, I still have trouble finding the words to tell how it felt.

I am going to die...now.

That was the voice I heard. It did not get any better when I did not immediately pass away. I did pass out. When I came to, I had wet my pants, and the sure knowledge of my demise was even stronger. I got to the bathroom, vomited breakfast, tried to clean myself up somewhat, put my field jacket over my head, and kept my eyes closed for the rest of the long trip. Nothing helped. Nobody noticed. I repeated the event from Ft. Dix, New Jersey, to Germany. I could barely stand when we finally arrived. It took days to recover.

I had never flown before and had not even been in a car going more than 30 or 40 miles, in fact. I did not feel so grown up at that point, but I had two and a half years to put it all behind me. The young can forget - fortunately for me. A year and a half in France helped this forgetting process. I came home by slow boat from Germany, and I put that bad experience behind me as best I could.

Despite it all

I asked for more,

more life,

more living.

I grew into my twenties, thirties, and forties without major incidents. I couldn't afford to fly anywhere and never drove fast, so it was a non-issue. And then one day, the old remembered feelings came back!

I was in the midst of caregiving for someone I loved. I had driven to Florida from Stone Mountain, Georgia, with no problems. On the way back, I began to feel that old familiar panic - I slowed down. My friend, who could not drive because of illness, never said a word as I struggled for control. It took me around 14 hours to get back (an 8-hour trip typically), but I did make it back home. In the months following, I got even worse. I could not go onto the expressway to drive. I couldn't even ride the Marta Train! As my friend passed, so did some of the fear, but I lost a job because I was afraid to ride the train or bus.

I ran away to my childhood mountains and stayed for six years before I felt strong enough to venture out again. I wasn't happy to be so afraid - but I could not face the idea of panicking - speed and motion were my enemies, and I had trouble going faster than 20 miles per hour during that period.

Older, wiser now

I compensate.

I apologize and

I make do.

The Veterans Dept (in Virginia, I lived in Norfolk for a time) gave me some help in coping with my panic attacks or phobias. I learned to breathe slowly and deeply, read and think about other things. They did not accept any responsibility for my condition. As a matter of fact, the doctor (I wish I could remember his name) refused to discuss that first attack at all. I went to Hampton, Va., for these sessions. I don't suppose I will ever be normal again. But then, what IS normal?

Still, I have

enjoyed my life.

I found ways

around the fear.

I take drugs when I must fly, and I depend on someone else driving when going any distance. I never drive on major highways and try not to ride on one. The US Army does not recognize that they did anything wrong - truly, nobody could have foreseen what that 1959 flight would do, how it would color the rest of my life. I have learned to live and love and continue despite the very real fear that has dogged me for the past sixty-some years - keeping me out of the air and off the highway, but I have never let it keep me from writing, from thinking, and living my life as best I can.

I thought at the time the doctor in Virginia thought I was trying to blame the Army and get some compensation because of my Phobias. That was not my intention then or now. I joined the Army to see some of the world - and I did just that. Nobody knew what that plane ride could do - how it would affect me for the rest of my life. Now at eighty years of age. I am still unable to cope with height or speed, or motion. I depend on someone else to take me places - I need drugs to fly on a plane, and I have trouble going more than 50 miles per hour in an automobile. I can't even watch action movies where someone else is climbing, falling, driving, or flying. And I have accepted the fact that at eighty-plus, nothing is going to change. I was ashamed of how I felt back then, and over the years - I still find it difficult to explain or talk about it. The fear is just as real today as it was in 1959 - I have only to step over the line - and it is all instantly recalled. I try not to. It feels like some sort of punishment when I try to explain.

John L. Nicholson  (06/26/1941)
Apache Junction, Arizona
foxhound548@yahoo.com
 

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