‘Fear exists in the vague, not in the specific’. 

My day began like any other. I woke. I read. I stretched. I danced. I wrote. I took in nourishment. But the day ended by humming a different tune. I called up my fear, addressed him by his first name and invited him to dine at mine.  

He came in through the front door frantically fiddling with his tie and drumming his fingers against his sides. It was evident that he had nervous energy that needed release, like the hounds on some grand duke’s estate—all agitated like. He looked around him nervously, eyeing me up and down, seeing me as a potential threat and then scouring the house for anything possibly suspicious. 

I smiled warmly at him. The wee lamb. In all frankness, I felt uncomfortable around him. He was awkward and uncoordinated. His eyeballs sort of bugged out of his eyes, appearing bloodshot and crazed. His hands were clammy when he shook mine and I internally groaned. Still he was hungry and he was my guest. 

We both took a seat at the table together. Rather than facing him like in a confrontation, I sat perpendicular to make him feel slightly more at ease. I smiled, I listened attentively, I asked him what his favourite movie was and asked him of his childhood and how he came to be. 

He told me his origin story, of how he lived in a house where he constantly had to walk on eggshells and read the room, how his vigilance and ability to anticipate needs helped him survive any targeted attacks from parents, siblings, relatives and friends. He told me his ability to predict the future and recognise patterns being the very thing that helped him survive. As he said all of this, his eyes roved the room. Scanning, always scanning—anticipating. The way he breathed was shallow, each breath reaching only from the chest rather than all the way from the toes—top heavy. Teeter totter. Teeter totter. Beads of cold sweat would sometimes peer out from his unkempt hair and greet me, shining their bald heads. 

At one point during his recounting, he began to churn out tears. I handed him a tissue, patted his back and reassured him I wasn’t going anywhere. He collapsed into heavy sobs on the table and I caught him in a gentle embrace while continuing to breathe calmly—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—steady, rhythmic. His breathing slowed way down, seeming to imitate mine and cautiously, he lifted his head up through his tangled arms. I looked at him full on, called him by his name and whispered, ‘It’s okay. I know where you come from. I understand now. I won’t try to get rid of you.’

He smiled furtively at me, cautious like. We ate together as I provided a space of warmth for him and his nervous ways. I regaled him with stories, I cracked jokes, I smiled at him brightly and as I sat with him, slowly, ever slowly like a butterfly peeking out of her cocoon, he began to relax. The tensed body began to loose, the clenched, sweaty hands began to uncurl, his breathing slowed and his shoulders dropped. 

Sensing that no immediate danger existed, my fear began to decrease. As he sat in his chair, I noticed that ever so slowly he began to shrink. I brought out dessert and poured wine in his glass, and still he continued to grow smaller. Not all at once, but slowly like an aged turtle. As we sat there together, it dawned on me that though my fear was one, in a way he had many faces. I began to name them. ‘Bright lights, mirrors, beautiful people, disappointing loved ones, being seen…’ By naming and inviting him in, fear himself didn’t seem so scary anymore. No longer was he someone to be rid of.

We moved to the sofa and I stoked the fire, adding logs. We sat in silence as the flames hypnotized us both into a sort of cozy trance. I thought he might enjoy being read aloud to, so I opened my book and read far into the night. I became so absorbed in the story that when I looked up, only the memory of the fire remained. The embers glowed and gleamed and when I looked to where I had last seen my fear, he had gone. Only a note remained in his place and read ‘Thank you for accepting me’.   

Swirling the last remaining drops of my wine in its glass, I swigged them down dregs and all, smiled and took myself to bed. Maybe fear wasn’t such a bad dinner guest after all.