Almost every aspect of one’s adult life is conditioned by experience, unless you subscribe to some kind of doctrine akin to pre-destination or determinism. Frequently I hear people speak of how a particularly embarrassing experience, not to mention a stinking hangover, has caused them to refrain from a particular apéritif or other alcoholic beverage. Smoking is abhorrent to those who have seen its disastrous effects on the health of loved ones. Their anger at those who partake in it represents a manifestation of concern, or fear, of anything which might harm their well-being.
Amazingly fear seems to be able to spread beyond its original confines far quicker than any other emotion. Perhaps this is why their have been so many instances in history of groups of fertile minds grouping together to lament the hopelessness of existence. The question does have to be asked: If our own minds are against us, what hope do we have? This is a point I will return to later.
Its peculiar trait is that fear’s pervasiveness is often, but not exclusively, founded upon an illusion. Actually, if one surveys the average LSE student, chances are you will encounter a least smidgen of deluded grandeur. The particular mechanisms of this complex subconscious reasoning process are a bridge too far for this author’s knowledge, but what I can say is that in general, people seem to be far more prone to depression – which obviously encapsulates more than just fear – than they are to elation or joy.
Here I will take the opportunity to note that I am speaking as a recovering fretoholic. I have chosen fret rather than fear as I think it serves to somewhat alleviate the blow of being an individual who is often caught in the clutches of terror. In other words, it makes me feel less of a pussy.
Back in 2006 I was admitted to hospital with an irregular heartbeat. It turned out that I was suffering from an infection of the sack which contained my heart, a condition known as Pericarditis.
Unfortunately in the week prior, I had been hot with some bad news that had led me down a dangerous path of debauchery. The result was that my coronary artery had become dangerously narrow. As I led A & E, the paraphernalia of the resuscitation room all around me, numbness in my fingertips, tears welling up my eyes, I sincerely believed I was going to die.
But I didn’t. And I was realistically never going to. But the experience had a monumentous effect on my life. A hitherto caged animal had been released and was ready to tear me apart.
A few weeks after I was discharged from hospital it happened for the first time. I was briskly walking down the street when I closed my eyes for a brief moment to catch my breath. All of a sudden I was back in that hospital room, the same sensations, the same thoughts running through my head. After rushing back to A & E I was told there was nothing wrong with me, I had merely suffered a panic attack.
As I walked out the door I could barely comprehend what had just happened. While everyone around was admonishing me that I was totally fine, I felt sick. Not just nauseous, I felt mortally wounded. From my privileged upbringing I never understood what people meant when they said that you don’t have to be dead to have your life taken away. Over the next two years I was to be given at least an indication.
Life became more of a struggle than I had heretofore experienced. I began to live in fear of returning to that room at any moment. It tainted every experience. Be it sitting at the end of the row in the cinema so as to escape unnoticed, or avoiding sex for fear of the exertion triggering an attack. I would spend hours lying awake for fear of dying in my sleep and in the worst case I whiled away the night in an empty A & E waiting room. It became such a habit that I usually didn’t even make myself known to the triage nurse. My life had begun to wilt in the spring of my existence.
Something had to give. After a particularly sustained bout of melancholy I sought refuge and help from mental health services. I finally found a body of persons who seemed to understand my problem, and they offered practical solutions to it.
After six months’ hard work, I finally began to gain the upper hand over my demons. The door to the room remained shut for longer and longer periods.
The whole experience revealed an awful lot to this young and sensitive soul. I began to understand that the reason fear is so powerful, those illusions anything but, is that it is there to save and not destroy one’s life. The physical effect of fear pushes performance to new levels, but it is the psychological impact that matters. It allows us to learn the virtues of courage, recognise our own insignificance and to shed many of the burdens which modern life places upon us.
To return to the question I posed at the beginning of this little confession, are our own minds against us?
The answer: it depends on your experience. I’m just one of the lucky ones I guess.
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