They seem so innocent, but all they are is a shortcut to death, and these poor people just walk into their sealed faith willingly. It's been too many times my body refuses that dull, deadly, dooming machine. The escalator. The spotlight is nerve-wracking, my face whirrs like the Wheel of Fortune to find which shade of burgundy to transform into, my palms evaporate all the moisture it can muster just to leak it down my forehead like a faucet. My legs reject the courage my brain distributes like a frantic grandmother sending late Christmas cards. Each time I chicken out, but this time mid-shopping spree a stranger watches me contemplate whether I should ride the chomping teeth of the escalator smack dab in the mall where all eyes just feature on me and this spotlight just hones in blinding me. I can tell the stranger is one of those people to give you his jacket in the rain, he just has grandfather’s eyes. He rests his hand that already radiates warmth supernaturally and deeply provides comforting words to coax me into stepping onto my death. I shut my eyes envisioning; my bed I won't lay in again or that last pop tart I won't ever savor again. My heart furiously pounds to make up for the fact each beat might be it's last. My trance is disturbed by the fuzzy, wise hands nudging me onto this slow death, leading me into the overwhelming smell of Sephora's "finest" perfumes.
"Thank you?" " I shockingly mumble.
I never saw the man again.
I usually get to the point where I'm encouraging myself and telling myself it's going to all be okay before having a panic attack and wander around looking for the nearest elevator for the next twenty minutes. My family always leaves me and tells me where to meet them because they refuse to be those villagers standing around to find out if there is a wolf or not.
"Hi excuse me, do you know where the nearest elevator is?" I slowly huff out to calm my rapid heart pace. I never make scenes, quite the opposite of my mother.
"Oh yeah, sure…" The directions never reach my ears. I'm usually busy counting my breathing because I need to regain control.
Spiders, roaches, snakes, small spaces, heights, the number thirteen, clowns for God's sake I could tolerate, but the minute I get asked to an escalator ride, I am done. Now a complicated person could somehow link this fear to a deep-rooted trauma or something, but I just don’t get why people trust MOVING stairs. I am a person most people trust enough to confide in, some say they look up to me and not just because I'm 5'7 but because I'm THAT girl. The one people ask for help, trust.
I cannot do escalators. They just don’t seem like a bright idea and I have a list I need to check off before I willingly risk my life, plus stairs have great health benefits. The worst part of fear is when you decide to flick it off your shoulder it grabs you down with it. West Edmonton mall, summer of 2017, my fear said, Let's give you something to fear. Tears sprung, betrayal coursed veins, but that one feeling I always loved popped in.
Being right.
Sometimes this whole thing just sounds silly and I end up scolding myself: you can't freak anymore especially when you're vulnerable in public.
"This is so much fun." I lean towards the group shuffling our way through Lenox to celebrate my best friend, Sophia’s birthday.
Of course, 7 of us chorus sounds of enthusiasm, but my friend's chill father playfully remarks, "This is fun?"
We just all burst into laughs. But my heart drops when I realize we have agreed to accompany the peaceful Nike with our loud chirps, which is downstairs. Oh no! I think. Am I going to ruin an amazing party with a dumb panic attack?
We all approach the escalator and everyone hops on. I freeze, my friend, Sarah notices and she jerks back like that one powerful slinky move that makes your friends go wow at recess. I stutter my steps and she asks gently, "What's wrong?"
I peer into her almond-colored eyes, searching if I should just spill or not. I choose-, "I can't go down there", I blurt, brushing away the afro that frames my light caramel skin.
"What is it? Is it something down there?", She questions looking up to meet my eyes that are like 5 inches above her petite figure.
"NO. It's how." I mumble.
"I-I", She stammers, arching her always waxed eyebrows that compliment her mocha skin, in confusion. "I'm not following."
"I'm terrified of these things." I brace myself for laughs. She looks at me with her animated eyes. She is never the one in the position to be the consoler, I usually help her which I don’t mind.
Instead, she holds my hand and says we can do it. "I mean you always support me so this is the least I can do."
“I just. I cannot do this.”I nervously rack my brain to feel that burst of courage, like maybe the OZ would whip up that drink as he did for that lion.
Then my bestie's father notices I'm not on the escalator so he asks, "What's up?" And of course, my friend blurts it and he starts playing with his LIFE.
He hops down the stairs, walking down backward and I'M JUST LIKE "WHAT."
My friend takes my hand, her hands are cold, like always and mine are hot, the yin to my yang. And we take one step. I'm risking my life with a hopping man and cold hands. But of course, I am a human and I know my limits but pushing myself to go beyond what I thought was my limit gave me an overwhelming sense of courage. In the end, I couldn’t have done it without Sarah, who stuck to that intangible code of friendship, she helped me fight and conquer myself and that’s the biggest thing anyone can do. Fear does not have loopholes, it must be conquered by that last bit of courage, holding on that twig above that waterfall. And it’s okay if I fall down the waterfall, in the end, I will never drown. “Just keep swimming.”
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