I wasn’t known as a brave kid. Imaginary adventures quietly rattled in my head from morning till night, rooted there by all the stories I’d consumed, but the wad of anxiety at my core kept my real world tight and small.
Like many girls my age, I collected pretty diaries with little padlocks on them. I never wrote more than a few entries in any of them, but a heart-shaped diary I received on Valentine’s Day 1993 had an unforgettable first page:
Things I Can’t Do
- Cartwheel
- Flip
- Dobble doch [sic]
- Summer salt [sic]
- Roller skate
- Ice skate
- Horseback ride
- Bike
- Swim
I was about to turn eight when that was written. As of today, I’ve done everything on that list save for a flip. But some of the simplest of these things would remain out of reach for many years. I’d watch the backs of the neighborhood kids as they biked away without me, and I’d kick my feet in the shallow end at pool parties while talking with the drunk adults assigned to watch us. (Well, mostly to watch me since I was 10x more likely than the other kids to drown.)
I loathed being teased, but there was one sort of teasing that made my heart race in a different way: peer pressure. If any kid ever needed bad influences on them, it was me. I was so bound up from my parents’ over-protective childrearing that I needed my friends to pull on a loose thread and unwind me a little, even if it stung. I was never more grateful for this than I was at a Girl Scout trip to Castles n’ Coasters. I was such a scaredy cat about the rides that I’m pretty sure even our scout leader, Andrea’s mom, got in on the prodding.
But there was just as much longing in me as trepidation when I stared up at the ninety-foot drop on Desert Storm. The other girls weren’t pushing me toward something I didn’t want; they were pushing me toward something I did.
On that lift hill — that point of no return — I was just as amazed with my view of I-17 as I was certain that my nachos were about to come up. My scrawny legs were braced against the fiberglass seat in front of us, and my knuckles were white on the neon green lap bar. The rest was a blur; I doubt my eyes were open for any of it. But as we breezed back into the loading station with flyaway hairs coming out at all angles from our plastic barrettes, I felt more alive than I had ever felt. I had been upside down… twice!
About fifteen years later, I was being peer pressured again, this time by two Swiss couch surfers who’d been referred to me by a friend. Lena and Steffi’s entire purpose in Southern California was to make a pilgrimage to Magic Mountain, and, seeing as they needed a ride, it was critical they convince me to join them. Meanwhile, I’d never been on anything more stimulating than a Disneyland ride (the Desert Storm looks a lot smaller once you’re grown), and I’d avoided anything meant for serious thrill-seekers.
Their second round of peer pressure commenced once we got to the park, when they chose the tallest coaster for us to ride first.
Sure. Why not? Cue the stomach flip.
In the end, I was the only one of us who didn’t gray-out on that ride, probably because all the anxious tension in my legs kept my blood up in my head. Ride after ride, that anxious tension never relaxed, but, just as when I was a kid, exhilaration overruled the fear.
And as it turned out?
I fucking love roller coasters.
Maybe even more than Lena and Steffi.
But I stopped buying annual theme park passes at least a decade ago, and, after many years away in the pandemic’s aftermath, it was only recently that I finally got back on some rides.
I was certain my love for these beasts would not have faded. And I was just as certain that I’d be in the grips of my anxiety on the way up every lift hill. I was never more sure of this than when the lap bar on a drop ride stopped at least eight inches from my actual lap. I’ll be a rag doll in this thing. I’ll fly out…
But at the top of the lift hill, my heart wasn’t racing. I always put my arms up, and they always shake… but they weren’t shaking. I somehow wasn’t sick with anticipation before plummeting into the waters below.
I eyed the next roller coaster — a new one — with suspicion. Surely its beyond-90-degree drop and flimsy restraints would bring back that old familiar feeling. But on the fourth or fifth inversion, I felt something I’d never felt on a roller coaster:
I was bored. I was upside down, going really fast, and I was bored. Ready for it to be done, in fact. In fairness, that particular one wasn’t a great coaster. The snob in me would say, “It didn’t have room to breathe.” But reviews aside, a general trend was dawning on me: there was no fear or anxiety.
For the last year, I’ve been trying to teach my nervous system that not everything is as dangerous as a grizzly bear:
That dry text from my mom? Not a bear.
That photo of my ex? Not a bear.
Sharing my feelings with someone? Not a bear.
So it’s possible, likely even, that my system figured out roller coasters are also not a fatal ursine threat. If true, this discovery is the biggest letdown of healing so far. But I suppose it’ll be worth it if I can one day shoot important emails from the hip without wanting to puke under the desk first.