fear of edges

The beginning

I cling to the tree. A spindly, sparsely leafed whip of a thing that is no taller than me. I’m not sure I should call it a tree. It’s a cluster of gnarled branches with the odd bit of greenery. Its central stem only slightly thicker than the rest of it.

Its roots can’t go that deep. The top of this cliff is sand and dust and beneath it is the stone that is this edifice. The tree is the nearest growth to the cliff edge, a brave little soldier that clings on to life, much as I cling on to it. Sometimes I pour the remains of my water bottle on it. I like to think I am keeping it alive and not vice versa, or at the very least our relationship is symbiotic.

When I let go of this tree, there is nothing between me and the edge. I come here often. And I cling to the tree. I feel its papery bark sticking into my fingers. Sometimes I get splinters, small grey bits of  tree that I take home. I dig them out with a needle. Little specs of blood and bark intermingle on a tissue on a table in my lounge.  

I am scared of heights. Or edges, maybe edges.

Some people are scared of heights because they are afraid of falling, others because they are afraid they will jump. That last one has a name, that fear of jumping,  High Places Phenomenon.  Apparently its your brain misfiring, misinterpreting the signals, that’s the science stuff. In literature when its described, its more about freedom, about the void, about flying, about wanting to know how it feels. A few seconds of absolute freedom, of falling.  Its hard to describe why its so attractive as an idea.

That’s why I am here again clutching the spindly tree. I am back from the edge. I am not thinking of the landing, just wondering about the sensation, the feeling of those first seconds, milliseconds. How will that feel?  To just go over the edge, to know that sensation. I cannot control it, that urge, desire.  Not easily. So I hold the tree. I let myself imagine. Close my eyes. See it. Guess at the feeling.  But not too much. After a long time I let go of the tree. I turn around and I go home.  

I do not think it is healthy for me to live near here much longer.

The middle

I moved away. Down along the coast. Somewhere flat.  The highest rock on the beach, about 2 feet, most I could do was jump onto sand and sprain an ankle. I swam in the ocean. I drank in cutesy coffee shops. I had long lunches with friends. I held a job, bought a house. Years passed and I thought it was gone. That feeling in my belly. That thing I was never quite in control of.

And then one day I was swimming in that ocean, and I felt it. The lump. I thought a lot of things, and I thought of that again, of that sensation, of free falling. Of not ever knowing it, well at least not in a physical sense. There was a visceral sense of falling but not a physical one. I went for tests, there was a treatment plan. A diagnosis. A prognosis. A life, a future, curtailed but there behind the meds. Hope. And I went back to the ocean, to its coldness, to its salty embrace, to prepare, to deal with it all, to get my brain in gear.

But I knew. I knew the end.

The end

The day before treatment started. I packed up the car. I drove. After 20 years the old town looked different. I went to that car park, which was now much closer to the edge. They moved it, but my beloved little tree was still there. Not much taller, still spindly, still clinging on. I booked into the only hotel in town. I slept. At 6am I got up. And then before daylight came I drove back to the car park.

It was empty. I got out of the car. I took off my boots and socks. This was a bare foot trip. The car park was gravel so the first few steps were not pretty. After that it gave way to dust and sand.  I went beyond the barrier to the tree. That wondrous, spindly, spiky creature that had held me steadfast for so long. I high fived the warning sign as I went.

Danger beyond this point. It should have said freedom.

I grabbed that little tree like I had so many times before. I spoke to it softly. Remember me. And I’m sorry.  And there’s a lump, they say I will get better but I don’t want that. I asked it for forgiveness, like it was a God. And just to bear witness. I felt its bark dig into my hand. It had not changed in 20 years and deep inside I hadn’t changed that much either.

Then I looked into the sun that was emerging on the horizon. I peeled each finger off the tree. I stood beside it briefly. I didn’t scream or yell. I just ran. Only a few steps. I felt my feet pound into the ground. The dust being kicked up.  And then there was no more ground. And one foot felt the air and then the other foot.

And then I flew.