The Fear of Heights and the Thrill of Diving off a Bridge
I have not stopped the fear, but I have learned to do what I fear. A father’s story.
When my child was two years old, I taught him to fear his tricycle. Six months prior, he had not been scared. On the contrary, he enjoyed it. Now he was crying as I tried to put him on the cycle. I didn’t understand at the time how a child could suddenly learn to fear.
His tears were not cries of pain but of fear: eyes were wide open, skin white, his whole face and body pleaded with me.
There is no danger, I could hear myself saying — unconvincingly to both him and me.
The origin of fear
I learned to fear heights the day my son was born. Welcome to fathering.
I realized this when I hesitated to get on the rooftop vista of an eight-floor restaurant, standing immobile at the entrance. I could not extend my foot. My wife insisted. She was holding my son. She reassured me that there was a solid barrier surrounding the entire edge of the roof, an impenetrable glass fixture that would keep our son safe from falling while allowing him to see the city from eight stories high. I made her promise not to go near the edge. And then I tested the reinforcements of the steel linings of the barrier.
I kept seeing him leap from her hold and fall over the edge. I kept looking over the ledge to see the sheer verticality of the fall, the endless sides of the building. There was no hope, just a crushing fall. I imagined his face as he fell — that same tricycle face. I saw his arms outstretched. Would I jump after him? Would I watch his fall? Would I turn away? There were cars below, a constant flow of traffic.
Learning to fear falling — everywhere
Whenever I walk over a bridge, I imagine myself jumping into the river below. I have no choice, that’s my fear.
Oddly, I love diving 15-feet high into a swimming pool. Or from a tree branch into a river. I get a thrill standing at the edge and looking down at the horizon, the far off pool, feeling that my fall will be safe.
But on the bridge, there’s no thrill.
My jump is involuntary. It’s as if I’m being pushed violently — but it’s me who’s pushing. I often imagine a boat will come out from under the bridge at the same time, crashing into me as I fall.
Immediately I think of my son. When he was small, I lived in fear that he would jump out of my arms and fall over a bridge. I imagined this several times a day. Now, at ten years, different tragedies hound me: cars, bullies, drugs, psychosis.
To type these words is almost impossible. Even shameful. I am literally trembling. I have to stop. Welcome to fathering ..
Jumping, Diving — are not falling
Falling is about losing control. It’s about not being confident. Not believing in your own power to fly. And not trusting that you can fall from a deadly height and touch the bottom and feel refreshed.
Though I haven’t learned to stop fearing, I’ve learned to do what I fear.
Contradiction? No. Life. Moving on. I’m someone with a fear of heights who loves to dive into a pool at a height of 15 feet. How is this possible? It’s in the word thrill.
A life-changing piece of knowledge came my way: Anxiety and Excitement are two sides of the same coin. The thrill of jumping into emptiness is that coin. Try it. You’ll discover that the real you is not on the ground dead, nor on the bridge scared of dying; it’s in the air, not falling, not flying, but living a successful life.
What about my son? What have I taught him about falling or diving from heights?
When my son was learning to walk, he once found himself stuck on a 1-inch ledge in a doorway. A single inch is a lot for a child. I asked him to come to me, calmly. But my body stiffened. My fear told me that he couldn’t get off the ledge. I consoled him. Begged him to come to me. Just extend your foot and take my hand.
He just smiled and fell to the other side, giggling.
Ten years later, my son has noticeable fears. Maybe that’s normal and healthy. But I don’t know if it’s the father or life that has created his fears. I know my own fears. What are his?
I do my best. Good enough father. I show him that I have learned to fall. That I can jump into a body of water from the highest point possible.
