Fear
The spirit of Fear comes in many forms. I used to think I wasn’t afraid of anything but as they listed things like “strong feelings of powerlessness”, “stripped of authority at church”, “pulling away or withdrawing from others”, I realized that this does apply to me. How does the door open for fear to get in? Amongst other ways, it can come through previous generations and childhood experiences.
When I went for prayer about fear, I was asked, “What are you afraid of?”
Rejection.
“Rejection by whom?”
Authority figures, maybe? Those who have power over me? Especially men. Oh! That’s a new thought!
“When was the door opened?”
I hadn’t thought about that, but it came so clearly—when I was a preschooler. We lived with my paternal grandparents and my grandfather was very stern. I remember how, at our nightly times of family worship, wondering which way was the “proper” or more pious way of kneeling: sitting on my heels or being upright from head to knees? The latter was more uncomfortable so that must be the better way. My sister and I weren’t allowed to move or wiggle during prayer or during the reading, never mind making any kind of noise.
But another thought and remembrance came to me. My older cousins have described the kind of man they knew my father to be. He was jovial and friendly, easily their favourite. I knew a different man. Why? Was he that different with us? I remember, still at my grandparents’ as a preschooler, listening to a children’s radio program with my mom and sister but we had to do it clandestinely so that my dad wouldn’t find out. Was I afraid of my father because of his behaviour or because of what my mom communicated? Did I learn fear of my dad, grandfather and men in general from my mom? I’m beginning to wonder. I have only one concrete memory of feeling afraid of my dad on my own account and many positive experiences with him but I can see my mom, who was nearly young enough to be my father’s daughter, being very insecure. In later years she clearly displayed an animosity towards men.
The person praying for me led me through a declaration, phrase by phrase as I echoed. When she prompted, “I am equal to everyone else,” I couldn’t open my mouth to say the words and broke down crying.
I have never felt equal. From grade one on, everyone else was richer, dressed nicer, was more informed, more important or popular. My classmate’s play house was nearly as big as the house I lived in—a building smaller than a one-car garage with no plumbing. Five of us, one in cloth diapers, lived in that little house and my dad drove to the public tap in the neighbouring town to get water, which he brought home in pails.
When we moved to the city just before grade two, I was put in the slow class. All the other kids came with school supplies. I had nothing and wondered how they knew what to bring. In the middle of the year I was moved to the smart class but they were way ahead of me in what they’d been taught. I remember the day the teacher asked me what time it was. We were all lined up, waiting to be dismissed for the day. I hadn’t been taught how to tell time so I said I didn’t know. Everyone laughed.
When we left my dad, in the middle of grade three, we moved into a portion of the main floor of a three-story house, sharing the basement washroom with the other main-floor tenant. My three sisters and I shared a small bedroom and my mom slept on the couch. A few years later, we moved to a complete, self-contained apartment that was infested with mice. My classmates lived in modern bungalows in the suburbs and their homes were so beautiful, uncluttered and well-kept. But then, they were “rich” and we were poor. We were so poor that when we began receiving the paltry sum that welfare gives its clients, we moved a few steps up on the social scale.
My mom reinforced this idea of being unequal by the way she related to others and so I’ve lived with it all my life. It still amazes me that I now live in a large, five-bedroom house in a part of town where, as a child, I thought only “rich” people lived. But even still, I feel unequal—unequal to my neighbours, unequal to my husband’s colleagues, unequal to women who are well-dressed and well-coiffed, unequal to those who have power and position and especially unequal to those who are popular. I’m afraid to “impose” myself on them, as though they have more important things to attend to than spending time with me.
The person praying for me about fear, spent time praying over me and then asked me to symbolically remove the yoke of fear from my shoulders and break it over my knee. Then she picked up the declaration again, asking me to repeat, “I am equal to everyone else,” and this time I could do it.
When I went for prayer about fear, I was asked, “What are you afraid of?”
Rejection.
“Rejection by whom?”
Authority figures, maybe? Those who have power over me? Especially men. Oh! That’s a new thought!
“When was the door opened?”
I hadn’t thought about that, but it came so clearly—when I was a preschooler. We lived with my paternal grandparents and my grandfather was very stern. I remember how, at our nightly times of family worship, wondering which way was the “proper” or more pious way of kneeling: sitting on my heels or being upright from head to knees? The latter was more uncomfortable so that must be the better way. My sister and I weren’t allowed to move or wiggle during prayer or during the reading, never mind making any kind of noise.
But another thought and remembrance came to me. My older cousins have described the kind of man they knew my father to be. He was jovial and friendly, easily their favourite. I knew a different man. Why? Was he that different with us? I remember, still at my grandparents’ as a preschooler, listening to a children’s radio program with my mom and sister but we had to do it clandestinely so that my dad wouldn’t find out. Was I afraid of my father because of his behaviour or because of what my mom communicated? Did I learn fear of my dad, grandfather and men in general from my mom? I’m beginning to wonder. I have only one concrete memory of feeling afraid of my dad on my own account and many positive experiences with him but I can see my mom, who was nearly young enough to be my father’s daughter, being very insecure. In later years she clearly displayed an animosity towards men.
The person praying for me led me through a declaration, phrase by phrase as I echoed. When she prompted, “I am equal to everyone else,” I couldn’t open my mouth to say the words and broke down crying.
I have never felt equal. From grade one on, everyone else was richer, dressed nicer, was more informed, more important or popular. My classmate’s play house was nearly as big as the house I lived in—a building smaller than a one-car garage with no plumbing. Five of us, one in cloth diapers, lived in that little house and my dad drove to the public tap in the neighbouring town to get water, which he brought home in pails.
When we moved to the city just before grade two, I was put in the slow class. All the other kids came with school supplies. I had nothing and wondered how they knew what to bring. In the middle of the year I was moved to the smart class but they were way ahead of me in what they’d been taught. I remember the day the teacher asked me what time it was. We were all lined up, waiting to be dismissed for the day. I hadn’t been taught how to tell time so I said I didn’t know. Everyone laughed.
When we left my dad, in the middle of grade three, we moved into a portion of the main floor of a three-story house, sharing the basement washroom with the other main-floor tenant. My three sisters and I shared a small bedroom and my mom slept on the couch. A few years later, we moved to a complete, self-contained apartment that was infested with mice. My classmates lived in modern bungalows in the suburbs and their homes were so beautiful, uncluttered and well-kept. But then, they were “rich” and we were poor. We were so poor that when we began receiving the paltry sum that welfare gives its clients, we moved a few steps up on the social scale.
My mom reinforced this idea of being unequal by the way she related to others and so I’ve lived with it all my life. It still amazes me that I now live in a large, five-bedroom house in a part of town where, as a child, I thought only “rich” people lived. But even still, I feel unequal—unequal to my neighbours, unequal to my husband’s colleagues, unequal to women who are well-dressed and well-coiffed, unequal to those who have power and position and especially unequal to those who are popular. I’m afraid to “impose” myself on them, as though they have more important things to attend to than spending time with me.
The person praying for me about fear, spent time praying over me and then asked me to symbolically remove the yoke of fear from my shoulders and break it over my knee. Then she picked up the declaration again, asking me to repeat, “I am equal to everyone else,” and this time I could do it.
posted by Magdaleine at 4:57 PM
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