On the Edge

I spent the last three days on a camping trip with three other moms and our collective seven children. It was fun and adventurous and rainy and relaxing and uplifting and terrifying. Yes, absolutely terrifying. Well, only parts were terrifying. And only for me.

We camped in the Gooseberry Falls State Park. Clean bathrooms, nice campsite, quiet evenings. Lake Superiour was breath-taking. Both in the sense that it was beautiful, and in the sense that at times when I stood by it I, quite literally, couldn't breathe. It seemed that every direction we turned there was a cliff. Steep, high, dropping to rocks, crashing water and certain death below cliffs. Well, I'm assuming that's what the cliffs were like. I never actually got close enough to look over the edge.

The first snippet of fear hit me when we took a walk after dinner on the first night. We thought we would wear the kids out a bit before stuffing them in the tents and commencing with mom-time, which consisted of sitting around the campfire drinking beer. The kids ran off ahead of us a bit and one of the other moms yelled "Don't get too far ahead!" Another said "Beware of the cliffs!" I laughed. Kids running near cliffs! Preposterous! And then we emerged from the path onto the top of a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. I'm sure the view was gorgeous, but I couldn't see it. I was too busy screaming at my kids to stay away from the edge. We'd had a long rainy day of driving and setting up camp, so we only stayed a moment and then headed back. I'd only gotten a taste of what was to come.

The next day started with doughnuts and a trip to Split Rock Lighthouse. We spent the afternoon watching the kids play at Agate Beach while us moms sat with our feet in the cool lake water. Probably my favorite camping adventure. It occurred to me that I didn't seem to worry as my kids climbed huge rocks. But that evening, on another after-dinner walk, we went to what appeared to be a tad-pole breeding ground. It was a large, flat area that had several puddles, ranging from an inch to several inches deep. But beyond the puddles was, once again, a cliff. The kids had all been there earlier, when one of the moms had taken them on a hike. They had wanted to bring the rest of us back to see the tadpoles. On their first visit, they had been so excited about the puddles, that they hadn't ventured near the cliffs. But this time, feeling gutsier and excited to be showing off their cool find, the kids were running everywhere. I was filled with dread. Dread and panic. Hysterics, actually. Every ounce of my being, every cell in my body was terrified. I was tense and almost shaking. It was hard to catch my breath and all I could do was yell ("yell" doesn't quite describe it) at my kids to come closer to me. The fear must have been written all over my face and in my voice because Sophie asked why I was so scared. She said she knew not to go near the edge. I looked around. None of the other moms seemed so panicked. Of course none of them wanted their kids near the cliff's edge, but they seemed to trust that their kids knew better. They didn't seem to think that the answer was to repeatedly bark "Stay away from the edge! Get back here! Please, get back here!" And now that I think about it, none of the kids were going close enough to the cliff to actually fall.

I watched as one of the moms walked right up to the edge, looked over, and walked back. She did this as if it wasn't any big deal. As if looking over the edge of a cliff didn't automatically mean plummeting to her death. Later, as I thought about how all consuming my fear had been that evening, I once again pictured her standing there, looking down. I thought to myself, The only way I could ever do that is if there were a rope tied around my waist. But then again, if the rope broke... I thought about a time, about four years ago, when we went to a family reunion in Colorado. Wade, my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself took the cog rail up to the top of Pikes Peak. At the summit there was a restaurant and gift shop. I was difficult for me to step out of the building to look at the amazing views. But I did, and I was fine. However I wouldn't walk within 30 feet of the edge. As long as I was no where near the drop, I knew I couldn't fall. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel panicked. As long as I kept that distance, I was okay. But at the top of the cliff over-looking Lake Superior, it wasn't just about me. I knew I could stay far away from that drop, but there were seven kids who were filled with excitement and wonder and who weren't willing to hold my hand.

Here's what I rationally knew, even at that time: I knew all of the kids are smart, good kids. I knew that the other three moms weren't going to let anyone get hurt. I knew that I was the only one who was reacting that way. And I knew that my hysterical screaming was doing nothing but sucking the fun out of that moment for everyone. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't stop because what I knew was overpowered by what I felt. And what I felt was that something terrible, something catastrophic was about to happen. And I wouldn't be able to stop it.

Even typing that sentence brought the panic back for a second.

I've never thought I had any phobias. But on this camping trip it was clear that I do. What I had felt around those drop-offs was more than just wanting to keep my kids safe. It was irrational. It was all consuming and completely beyond my control. I thought I might be afraid of heights, but after talking with my husband about my experience, he pointed out that I have climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral with no problem. I don't mind flying and one of my dreams is to slowly float above the world in a hot air balloon. I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of edges.

After searching Google I found some explanations:

"Fear of edges is not a fear of heights. I don’t mind being up high at all. Planes, elevators, skyscrapers, none of those bother me. It is standing at the edge and being confronted with an unreasonable belief that I am going to tip over and something horrible will happen."

"This Edges phobia is generally caused by some influence of "Edges" in the person's life through the media, cinema, childhood experiences, family experiences, dreams, books, news events, etc."

Apparently, there are over 250,000 people in the US who have the same fear. I'm still reeling a bit as all of this is coming together. Note the influences in the second quote. My entire childhood, and even rarely as an adult, I have had dreams of endlessly falling. I wake up out of breath and in a panic a split second before, in my dream, hitting the ground. And now that I'm thinking about it, I'm terrified of the edge of the platform for the Subway in NYC. Bridges with little or no railing are almost impossible (although I can make myself do it) for me to cross. Even walking along the dock at Rabbit Lake, which I have been doing my entire life, has never been easy for me. It's actually a bit of a relief to finally understand why.

On the last morning of our camping trip, before packing up and heading home, we went to Gooseberry Falls. There were edges, but we mostly stayed away from them. I'm sure for my sake, although none of the other moms made me feel badly about it. At one point they took six of the kids, including my Sophie, to the other side of the falls, where it was a bit "cliffier." Max had wanted to stay back and play in the water. As I sat at the rocky shore and watched him, I thought about the fact that Sophie was off with all the other kids and moms, out of my sight, too far for me to hysterically scream at her. I said a little prayer that she stay safe and tried to make sense of how I had been feeling. Before too long I saw the kids emerge and begin making their way across the shallow river back towards Max and me. Sophie, filled with excitement, came running up to me, barely able to contain herself, and said, "Mom! I touched the top of a waterfall!" I hugged her and told her that it must have been amazing.