Fear Itself

I am a big fan of fear. I like to feel fear, so I often put myself in situations that cause me to be afraid. I've been called an idiot for this, which I accept completely. The feeling of fear makes me so alive. You could say its almost like an addiction. Junkies need to shoot smack to feel good, I need the rush of fear.

Now, I don't go out and put myself in dangerous situations. Not often, at least. I like to think that I'm a pretty level headed woman. Sometimes, though, I find myself playing ding-dong ditch on Death's door, and hoping like hell he isn't home.

 Death has a lovely front yard

When I was a teenager I was still a fear junkie, maybe more so than I am today. I did a lot of things to feel alive, some of which I'm not proud of. My teenage years, especially my early ones, were set in South Carolina. It was a southern cesspool that I absolutely hated, but I learned how to surf when I was there - something I found amazingly calming and therapeutic. Still, surfing didn't take the need to feel fear out of me, it just gave me a new medium to do it. 

South Carolina gets hit with hurricanes hard. Proper hurricanes, big gusts of wind, rain, debris flying everywhere. This, of course, gets the ocean pretty worked up. Nice big waves. My 14 year old self thought that this would be the perfect time to try and surf, because why the fuck not? I thought I was invincible.

I lived less than a mile away from the ocean, so it was no problem getting there. I tried to get a few of my other surfer-rat friends to come, but they had common sense, so it seems. So I went alone. Now, I'm not a very large person. When I was 14, I couldn't have weighed more than 100lbs soaking wet, so the 60+mph wind really did make it kind of flighty. Take, and the fact I was carrying a huge longboard... I'm surprised I made it to the beach in once piece!

As soon as I got there, the size of the waves just astounded me. I was used to maybe 6ft waves, during high tide. These monsters were easily 9+. I felt that familiar tingle of fear in my spine, and the logical part of my brain told me to go home, get back into bed, get warm. The stupid part of my brain said, "Let's do it!" Of course, I listened to the stupid part of my brain.

Getting into the water was no easy task. I was tossed about like a ragdoll by the waves hitting the shore, I'd lose grip of my board and get yanked by the cord attaching me to it, I'd get a face full of salt water as soon as I could surface. Barely 5 feet in and I was sputtering and looking like a drowned rat. But I carried on, and soon I was a good distance out. I clung to my longboard and tried to get my bearings, but the massive riptide and waves just kept me moving. I couldn't control where I was heading. I kept getting pushed further and further out.

My brain conjured up all sorts of deathly beasties which were lurking in the depths below, and I was on full blown panic mode. It was dark, it was a hurricane, I was getting swept out to see, the Leviathan was going to eat me, oh my god, oh my god I'm going to die. Then my brain kicked in, I angled myself towards shore, tried my damndest to get back to it. My arms were aching, I was a good mile out by this time. My only chance was to catch a wave and hope to god I could ride it in, at least a decent amount. But I knew that if I fell off I'd be dead - the strap would break off, my board would be carried away, and I'd be left alone, treading hurricane-enraged water a mile off of shore. I wouldn't have lasted more than 10 minutes.

 My imagination is one of my biggest enemies

The fear in me was the driving force. It kept my heart beating, it kept my fingers able to grip my board, it sharpened my vision enough that I could see a swell rising at just the right length to be the perfect wave to catch. It kept my arms stroking the water even though the muscles were too tired to do anything, and it kept me from feeling absolute resignation to me death. I would not give up.

The wave came and picked my board up, I steadied the beast out, and I popped up to my feet. It's nearly impossible for someone so little to disrupt the balance of a long board so big, and I was doing all I could not to get pushed off by the wind  and the general shit weather that I was thankful I took out this board.

The swell carried me a decent way in towards shore before it broke, but I was still too far out to get back on my own, so I rode a series of smaller waves in. The second my feet hit the gritty sand, I pulled myself up out of the water, dragged my waterlogged body away from the ocean, ignored the icy rain hitting me and the wind trying to push me down, and I just collapsed.

I'd have stayed there for the rest of the night, but I knew that I'd end up getting some sort of horrid cold or pneumonia because of it. So after a few minutes of rest I started the trek back home. Once I got inside, I allowed myself to pass out in my bed. Never had I slept so soundly. Never had I been so worn out. Never had I been so scared of the ocean. Never had I felt so alive.

I love fear. It drives me to do most of the things that I do. From watching horror movies to playing horror games to going out and exploring haunted houses and getting swept out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, to feel fear is why I do it.


How do you folks feel about fear? Do you try to avoid it? Or do you embrace it like I do? I'd love to hear in the comments!

An introduction and then some...

An introduction post! Wonderful! I don't know how you came to stumble across my humble little site, but I assure you I will do my utmost to keep you entertained. I don't plan on this blog having any sense of direction, it will not be a strictly based on cooking, movies, books, music or any other sort of thing, but rather it will have bits and pieces on all those topics. 

Now, about me - if you're interested. I'm no one of import, but I do like to think I have a fair few interesting stories. A 20-something year old woman with interesting stories, you say? Impossible! No, no, I assure you, my life has been quite easy going for the most part, but I have had a few tales to tell - but all in good time. I can't have this all about me, now, can I? My name and age are not that important, but for politeness sake I will introduce myself as Bro, and that is how I will refer to myself. Silly, yes, but it's a nickname that has stuck with me for a couple years. 

Now! Onto the blogging! Anyone that knows me knows that I enjoy being scared. While you may not know me, you will, if you continue to come to this little site. I've had a morbid curiosity about fear ever since I was a little girl and I sat up late at night hiding under the kitchen table, watching the horror movies on the television in the other room. I'd hold my breath, heart racing, trying not to make any noise, lest I be caught - I never feel more alive than when I'm scared. And I love it. As such, I dive into the deepest, darkest, scariest things I can get my claw-like fingers on and just totally immerse myself in it. Movies, stories, shows... anything that can bring a little tingle of nervousness to a full-fledged, palm-sweating, heart pounding fear. 


I don't know about you, reader, but the things that cause the most fear in me aren't horrible beasties or ghoulies or other atrocities like that, but things that could actually happen, the realness of the evil in serial killers, or psychos hit just a bit harder because... what if it happened to you? 


Of course other things frighten me, Slenderman or zombies are my two irrational fears that haunt my dreams. But violence for the sake of violence, evilness for the sake of evilness, no rhyme nor reason to it - that can chill a man to the bone. Sure, mothman is scary, but what's really terrifying is the nonsensical destruction psychopaths can wreak on a person and his family. 

One movie in particular stands in my mind: Funny Games. 

 

Such a non-threatening title..

Funny Games. A quaint family goes for a trip up to their cabin for a nice get away. Nothing can go wrong, right? Of course not, it's a soul-crushing movie that leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Everything starts going wrong with eggs. What I learned from this movie is, when a clean, proper, white-gloved clad stranger asks for eggs, give them the damn eggs, or he'll break your leg with a 9-iron. 

Nothing says sinister like a polo.

I won't go into detail about the movie, ruining it for those who have yet to see it, but I will say this: It's violence for the sake of violence. There is no reason this family was targeted other than the fact they were there, and it might have been amusing to the psychopathic antagonists, Paul and Peter. If you haven't seen it, I strongly recommend it. It's the type of movie you love to hate. Or, hate to love. If you're twisted like me, then you'll enjoy showing it to other people and watching them squirm as the scenes unfold.

Now that I've successfully filled this page up with text, I will do the graceful thing and make a clean wrap up. I expect to update this blog frequently, so check back often, I'm sure you'll find something you will like eventually. 

Before I leave, I want to ask you readers a question:

What scares you? Think about it, and leave me a comment. I'd love to know.