Fight or flight?
These are supposedly the major responses to fear, but I know that there
is a third. I hide.
Whenever I watch a scary movie, my first instinct is to yell
out, “Hide!” Under the table, in the
forest, in a corner, under the bed. Just make yourself invisible. Even though in almost
every scary movie, the hiders get found, I can never think of doing anything but. I have never been a very fast
runner, and so flight is out. And while I
imaginatively do serious damage to unsavory characters in movies or on TV, in real
life, I am not a fighter. No, my initial response to threats or confrontation
is retreat into the dormouse mode. (Not
that I've ever met a dormouse, but A. A. Milne’s hid in a garden of “geraniums
red and delphiniums blue.”)
I loathe confrontation and am only brave with a pen in my
hand. In my children’s tween and teen
years, whenever a “discussion” reached an impasse, I wrote long letters on
yellow legal pad, in ink, explaining my concerns, fears, love. My script became increasingly larger as my
emotions intensified, so much so that the last page might consist of only three
words per line. These were long letters
that I folded and stuffed under their bedroom doors. Sometimes they wrote back; sometimes they just nodded the next day and normal home life returned--until the next time.
I was also an avowed hanger-upper. When I’d said all I
wanted to say and heard all the excuses I wanted to hear, I’d slam down the receiver. I found that Bang! quite satisfying, a
feeling that cell-phone-only users will
never know. I've a little shame about one
of those times. When my oldest was in
high school, she was late coming home one night. She called, and before she could say anything
but “Mom.…” I said, “Just get yourself
home right this minute!” She called
again, shouting into the receiver, “Don’t hang up! Don’t hang up! I've been in a wreck.” My concerned mother mode did kick in then, but
she will never let me live this one down.
(When the movie trailer for Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood featured the
mother slamming down the receiver, cutting off further conversation with her
daughter, three of my four children called to ask me if I’d seen myself in
action. Oops.)
With an adult child, I resorted to texting during one of our
conflicts. That child asked me why we
couldn’t just talk about it. My very
adult response was, “Because I want to say what I want to say, and I do not
want a response!” He accused me of “drive-by
parenting.” You see? I will go to any length to avoid
conflict. I didn't say it was always a
mature response. Effective? Yes.
Mature? Not so much.
I did have a stage in life when I argued about Vietnam
whenever I was at home, this in a family that was divided politically. Mom dropped the hammer on that and forbade even
the mention of Vietnam. When I was in college and after, I demonstrated for Civil Rights and Women’s Rights, but
since my forties—well, except twice in my sixties--I've written letters to the
editor, letters and e-mails to politicians, used my blog to post opinions. If I can say it in 140 characters, I put it
on Twitter. I avoid arguments that might
lead to yelling. I write instead. It feels safer, except for the time I got
several threatening hate mails about a letter to the editor in response to our starting a
war in Iraq. I’m not proud of this, but
I immediately stopped writing letters to the editor. I started my blog instead.
Sol scared me. And I’m a chicken.
I enjoy low-crawling and hiding. I love avoiding people who want to scream at
me. I wish I had more grown up responses
to fear, but I am just not comfortable with running or fighting. For those of you who are able to fight back
or run like hell, I commend you.
Me? I’m happy curling up into a
little ball in my virtual garden of geraniums red and delphiniums blue.
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