On Coasting and Coasters

Fear. That four-letter word we're all born with, human and animal alike. God's intended life preserver. Whether human and conscious of the feeling or canine and instinctually threatening the lawn mower which clearly means us harm, fear is meant to help us survive. The funny thing is that, sometimes in doing so, it prevents us from living.

Mom died 2 years and 2 days ago. That means that I have been surviving for 733 days, living every now and then, perhaps, but mostly just suriviving. The heaviest, deepest, most paralyzing fear struck me on the day that she suddenly died. A fate worse than my worst fear landed square in my lap. I had never, for a single second, considered a life without Mom...at least not for another 20 years or so. In the days since, I have attempted to describe my mother in many different ways to many different people, always somehow falling short of explaining what she really meant to me and why her death so utterly transformed me...so terribly messed me up. My early descriptions were of her as a "net"...she'd catch me if I fell. I'd lost my safety net. Later, I'd describe her as my "brick wall". She was more than a rock. She was an infinitely extendable, impenetrable force. Today, I realize that "trampoline" might be the most apt analogy yet. She provided a surface from which I could safely leap. She caught me, even cradled me when I came back down. And then she coaxed me back up again, this time higher than the first. She provided the launch pad, but also the landing pad, and she never let me settle in any one landing for too long.

So what I lost that day, amongst a million other tangibles and intangibles, was my trampoline. It was yanked from my yard in broad daylight, replaced by a dark and often seemingly bottomless hole. I have lived rather uncomfortably in my comfort zone since then, ashamed and often bored, but nevertheless safe from harm. It's as if I fenced off the back yard and installed dark curtains in the windows so as to shield myself from the hole. Excepting what some might consider a precipitous leap in moving to Boston, I have done little to face up to the struggles in life since Mom died. For the most part, I've avoided consciously creating additional fear for myself, afraid that I would become overwhelmed and somehow implode. While I could never fairly be called an adrenaline junkie, I had begun to pride myself on living life just a little closer to the edge (quite literally, in some cases involving bus rides in India...) Losing that courage meant losing that pride, and in turn, all of the confidence that went with it. There lies the birth of a vicious cycle.

Now to the coasters part. I've been mortally afraid of roller coasters for as long as I can remember. The fear has basically been driven into my being. "My name is Megan, I'm 5'7", my eyes are hazel, I don't ride roller coasters." My parents despised theme parks when we were kids and only took us after my sister and I had nagged them into submission. I rode one coaster as a kid...the probably now-defunct Scooby Doo roller coaster at Carowinds. After much trepidation on my parents' part, Dad rode with me. I remember getting off, being more grateful than ever before for terra firma, and thinking I'd never, ever, ever go on one of those death traps again. I didn't get back on a coaster until December of 2007, at 22. My giggling sister rode Goofy's Barnstormer with me at The Magic Kingdom. I almost screamed myself out of my seat. It didn't help that we won the honor of riding in the front of the coaster. Space Mountain was most definitely out of the question. In the interim, I avoided theme parks as much as possible, capitulated when I was dragged along, spent many hours sitting by myself as my friends giddily waited in endless lines for another thriller, and presented a horrendous first impression of myself to the people I was starting college with on the first day I met them (Carowinds, of course, being their bonding location of choice). Coasters became more than a quick route to the grave...they began to symbolize a personal failure. They were a party I was invited to watch from the window.

When I received the invitation to head to Six Flags New England with some of Jose's dental school class, my natural inclination was to politely decline. Why once again subject myself to purse-holding? Why watch the party, when I could simply avoid it altogether? Something else, however, took over and made me go. Whether it was the thought of actually missing out, the sheer boredom of another day spent in front of the TV, or some supernatural force I've yet to identify, I decided to go. I'd give this whole deal one more shot. I was absolutely determined to ride another coaster, and this time, it was going to be outside of Kiddie Land.

After collecting some thoughts about how to conquer one's fear of roller coasters over the internet and popping a Dramamine to stave off any undesirable physical reactions, I joined the line with everyone for the first coaster, a moderately-sized wooden contraption that looked as if it was about to collapse, "The Thunderbolt". I knew that psyching myself out in the line was the worst thing I could do, and I was actually remarkably calm, despite verbal diarrhea indicating otherwise, until we got up to the car. Then the survival instincts kicked in. The Fear. The big drop was not quite as bad as I had remembered, but I can't say that I thoroughly enjoyed that ride. In fact, I almost cried afterward, more from the realization that maybe I really couldn't do this after all than from any actual pain. I'd spend another day toting around other people's stuff, wasting money, and worst of all, feeling like I'd failed yet again. Then came the coaster that broke down, the "Mind Eraser", the one Marlayna recommended I not ride because it actually hurt. That one broke down just before my friends were set to board, and watching them play guinea pigs and ride it first after it was fixed was legitimately one of the scariest experiences of my life. It really didn't look like another coaster was in my sights.

Until "Flashback", a short, boomerang style looping coaster, whispered to me. Sure, I'd go upside down in loops. Sure, the drop looked nasty. Sure, I'd ride half the thing backwards. But fuck it. Let's go. I'm sick of this. Jose by my side, listening to me whimper about kittens and daisies and how I wanted him to adopt my cats after my imminent demise, we backed up the initial incline. Oh shit. This was a horrendous idea. Worst yet. And there was really no way out, short possibly of screaming like a banshee and faking a heart attack. Oh crap, here we go, down the drop...it's still sending my stomach into my throat, but...I've felt that already today, so it's not so unfamiliar and scary. And wait, we're looping and...all of a sudden, my screams of terror turn to screams of joy. I catch myself shouting "Woooohoooooo!!!!" and, embarrasingly, "Yeeeeehawwww!!!" We get back to the top, prepared to fall backwards along the same track. Oh God, can I survive that? Jose asks how I'm doing...to be honest, I was loving life, but not sure how long that would last. "Wait, and I'll tell you afterwards...." Then we drop, backwards, loop, corkscrew, done. HOLY SHIT! I'VE CONQUERED YOU, BITCH!!!! I'd done it. And I was smiling. Even though it really felt like my kidney had fallen out of my back. I must have been as stiff as a...well...you know. It took awhile to build up courage again, as Flashback was such a short ride that I was convinced I couldn't survive a longer one. I couldn't manage "Bizarro", the signature thrill ride that spans the whole length of the park and boasts an enormous sheer drop. But I was joking in the wheelhouse for "The Dark Knight". "THIS IS FOR HEATH LEDGER!!!!" I yelled, as we left safety. Up, up, up, a gorgeous view of the Connecticut River, but I can't enjoy that right now because I'm about to die. Daisies, kitty cats. Oh shit, here we go....wait...wait...this is fun...I'm actually enjoying this...I'm yelling in...ecstasy again, instead of sheer terror. No, no, the ride can't be over yet! I want to do it again...

And so I conquered a few coasters. I'm still terrified of those big drops and any coaster without a shoulder harness, but...I rode 1.5 times more coasters today than ever before in my entire life. I went upside down. I went backwards. I went upside down while going backwards. And damn, if it didn't feel good. Like the running that I've dared to face again recently, I met fear in the face. I have zero idea what it was today exactly that prompted me to throw up the shades and, if not leap into the hole in my yard, at least peer over its edge, but I have an idea that it had to do with the liberation that comes from the healing power of time, the exhaustion from so many years on the sideline, the strength (and peer pressure, and testosterone-induced sense of pride) that comes from having your best friend look you in the eye at the top of a coaster and tell you it's all going to be alright, and the comfort that comes from knowing you're a few hundred feet closer to heaven, if only to visit for a split second. As out of proportion as it sounds, the symbolism marking today was utterly significant, and I'll look back to it for inspiration time and again. Mom would never have believed I rode such coasters unless she saw it with her own two eyes, and today, I'm positive that she did.