I am petrified of heights. Always have been. As a child, my dad rented a cherry picker to do some work on our two story house. My sisters rode it up over the house and touched the chimney. I got eye level with the top of the first floor windows and my knees buckled and I crouched down, trying to get closer to the ground.
This past March, David and I traveled to Ireland in celebration of my 30th birthday. Aside: David really enjoys that in lieu of birthday or Valentine’s Day presents we do something, since he doesn’t like shopping.
I knew that Ireland was full of greenery and castles. I didn’t know it had so many cliffs.
One day, as we drove and hiked along the Dingle Peninsula, we came upon a cliff. It probably only rose 50-75 feet in the air, nothing compared to the others cliffsides we’d visited earlier in our trip. But still formidable to me. David asked if we could climb up it. I said okay and willed my feet to move forward. As we climbed over the stone fence blocking off the highest part of the hill, I forced myself to keep going. David encouraged me and was patient, not going too fast and allowing my timid feet to move at their own slow pace. He joked about parts of the drop off being angled so I wouldn’t plunge to my death if I fell over, first I’d roll a bit.
I reached the summit proud of my accomplishment. David praised me for going as far as I did.
I wish I could say that conquered my fear of heights. Unfortunately, as the wind picked up and my scarf whipped against my face I felt the familiar buckle in my knees. My heart raced and I crouched close to the ground. Had it not been for all the sheep poop on the ground I may have been tempted to lay down on the clifftop. But David held me close and waited for my panic attack to subside before he led me back down the cliff.
My fear of heights is still there, but it doesn’t control me as much as it used to.
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