After reading Gavin de Becker’s book, The Gift of Fear, I embarked on a quest to unearth my past experiences and find my instincts. I wanted to re-listen to what they were saying and see how I responded to them. In essence, I began a process of training myself to trust myself by delving into my memories.
But what’s the difference between instinct and anxiety and more importantly how can we tell one from the other?
Audio Version: Discerning Instinct from Anxiety
THE JOY OF THEATRE
We were living in Bradford, England when I turned seven. I was already the oldest of four kids, so getting one-on-one time with my mom was a real treat. She took me to the theatre for my birthday.
At one point during the play, while the aristocrats chatted, the butler busily dusted the room. In the center of the room was a statue of a naked woman and whenever eyes were not on him, he would take to dusting the statues breasts. It was the focus of the scene and got a lot of laughs.
My mom was not laughing. She tried covering my eyes, but as the scene went on and on and on, she decided we’d wait it out in the foyer. We paced the red carpeted lounge at least three times before she finally peeked in. The scene had ended, but no sooner had we snuck back to our seats, then the curtains closed and the lights went up.
From behind the red curtain, the butler, now flushed and nervous, emerged and announced there had been a bomb threat and asked everyone to leave the building quickly.
I was seven and had no idea what he was talking about. I was disappointed the play was over. I wanted to see the rest. It was funny.
Everyone stood up and began their way out. My mom and I took our place in line behind an old woman and her husband. They were slow. Everyone was slow. No one rushed, no one panicked.
“Why do we have to leave?” I ask my mom.
“Because there’s been a bomb threat,” she said.
“What’s a bomb threat?” I ask.
When she explained it, when the reality of our circumstances hit me, I reacted normally; I panicked. I must have looked like Chihiro from the movie Spirited Away when she slid down hundreds of steps. My stomach was in my throat.
“Why isn’t everyone running out?” I said, pulling on her to pass the people in front of us and run to the door. We were moving ridiculously slow.
She held my hand and we stayed in line. She told me that if everyone ran for the door all at once, people would get hurt, there would be a pile up at the door and then no one would get out. She said the safest thing was to stay in line and take our turn like everyone else.
I looked at the exit. I was terrified. The closer we got the further away it looked. It was my birthday. I became aware that I might not live past seven. I might not see my brothers, or my sisters or my dad ever again. This might be it. We might die right now.
With each step I wondered if it was my last. Are we going to blow up now? Is this the last step? Is this it? Is this it? Is this it? The door was so far away. We finally made it to the foyer. I wished we’d never gone back to our seats. I imagined my brothers and sister growing up without me. Is this it? Is this it? I finally saw the exit. Then we got within 10 feet and I could see people leaving the building. I felt jealous of them. They were going to live. They were getting away. I didn’t know if we would we make it out of the building before it blew up. Life became very precious. I liked being alive and I might not make it out of this building.
About seven feet from the door, I felt the cold winter air rush in from outside. I could see the cement steps. A few more steps. We’re almost there. I touched the door. We stepped outside.
“We’re safe, we made it!” I said feeling a rush of joy.
“We’re not safe next to the building. We have to get to the car,” mom said.
We were out of line now and we ran for the car. We climbed inside and mom took off. We made it. We made it. I couldn’t believe I was still alive. I could see my dad and my brothers and sister again. A feeling of surprise, relief and gratitude swept over me.
THE JOY OF SLEDDING
Ann and I were approaching the front of the line. It was late in the afternoon and we’d spent all day sledding. We planned to eke out every last bit of fun. It was the last day of the snow trip with our church group. We were thirteen.
Todd, one of the older kids, showed up with a giant inner tube that he’d waxed for high speed. It was huge. Two kids could easily ride it. And and I were next in line when Todd jumped on his tube and motioned for Ann to jump on the side. She did. Then he motioned for me to get on the other side.
I hesitated. It was a fast and super fun, but “there’s not enough room,” I said.
“Come on, come on, I’ll hang onto you,” he told me.
“Come on,” said Ann.
I went to get on, but a strong feeling came over me - ‘YOUR’E GOING TO FALL OFF.’
“Come on, we’re going,” said Todd, “Hurry.”
I half climbed on then got off again. I couldn’t shake the feeling I shouldn’t go.
“There’s not enough room,” I said again.
“You’ll be fine, I got you,” he assured me, “there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
At the last minute I jumped on and away we went.
Todd had his arm around me and I was hanging on tight, BUT (of course there’s a but) near the bottom of the slope there was a ramp of snow. We hit the ramp, I went flying off the inner tube, they went flying in the air, and by some weird aerial logistics, I landed face first in the snow and they landed in the inner tube on top of me.
They were laughing. I asked them to get off, but they didn’t move fast enough so I yelled. I was angry. Ann asked me if I was okay. I said, “I think so”.
I rolled to my back, stood up, then fainted. My humerus had snapped in half.
These two stories helped me understand a fundamental difference between instinct and anxiety.
In the theatre, I became afraid once I understood the gravity of the situation. My mind took that information and spun a terrifying ‘What If’ scenario, but not once did I have a gut instinct, or a clear thought, or strong feeling about needing to leave. I was only afraid after I learned what a bomb threat meant. It was a cognitive process, not a visceral one.
On the snow slope, I was having a great time when a strong feeling came over me and I knew I would fall off. I KNEW IT. It was a visceral feeling. Sure, I disregarded the feeling and found out what happens when you don’t listen. My arm was broken, but my intuition was intact.
If this content was helpful, please consider sharing. I’d also love to hear how you tell the difference between your instincts and your anxiety.
For how to discern FEAR from WORRY, click here and read Recognizing Fear