Becoming My Mother

This past weekend, M and I were out for a country drive along the border between Holland and Germany when he pulled into a rest area. In front of me was a picnic table and a huge, open, but securely-built steel tower. M wanted to show be the beauty of Twente from the top, so I changed my shoes and we started climbing.

M was ahead of me as I huffed my way up the stairs. I felt safe, knew I was safe even, but moments from the top, M swung the gate open on the viewing platfrom and the tower shook ever so slightly. I froze. My heart started beating wildly and I felt an overwhelming sense of panic and fear.

"Uhhhhh, uuhhhh Martijn.... uuuhhh... I can't do this!" And I plopped my butt down on the closest step, while maintaining a death grip on the handrails. He hurried back down to me, "shhhh... shhhh... it's okay. I've got you... okay let's go, let's climb back down..."

I have never EVER been afraid of heights before. My mother is afraid of heights, not me. I like being up that high, even if it is a little bit scary. I like being able to survey a large swath of land from the top of a mountain or an airplane or, so I thought, a large steel tower.

When we got to the bottom of the tower, I was still a little scared, but more just annoyed with myself that somehow, someway, I'd developed this fear. M said that a few years ago, he did too -- and in exactly the same way. One second he was doing an activity he'd always done (say climbing a tower), the next second he was full of panicky fear. Just hit him outta nowhere. With practice, he finally overcame the phobia, but he had to make a conscious effort to do it.

Guess I'm going to start finding towers to climb. (and diapers to wear, just in case)