I’ve come to a conclusion: Most of my adult fears have to do with tales my mother told me to make me behave.
For instance, she told me that the pressure cooker was a highly dangerous pot and to merely touch it would cause it to explode. When I asked why it never exploded when she touched it, she said that she knew how to touch it properly. And so I was afraid of pressure cookers for the rest of my life.
And we were also told (when we lived on a street next to railroad tracks) that they were electrified. Randomly. We would never know when the ZAP would come, we would just be dead. Of course, this was to prevent us from putting quarters and pennies on the tracks to have the train mash them, and it didn’t really work for the other kids, though it worked very well on me. (Gullible? Me? Probably should have been my middle name.)
I’m going to be 50 this year, and this is the year I finally got over my fear of pressure cookers, which is ridiculous, but there you have it. I feel there will be more explorations of fears, and if I find the root of said fears are tales from my mother or some other trusted adult, I will have to reconsider.
As I always say, being a grown-up ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.