At a point in my childhood, I believed that Mom sent my brother and I to YMCA summer camp in hopes of killing one of us off. This thought first occurred to me during a rock climbing event. I guess, truth be told, I didn't have to participate, but, despite my paralyzing fear of heights, I did. I stood at the bottom of the gray, cold, hard rock wall and slowly I looked up to size my opponent. My palms began to sweat, my knees began to knock, and my heart crept into my throat. I was no longer sure what I had gotten myself into.
The camp counselor clamped the safety rope to my harness and I stepped into position. I placed one sweaty palm on the damp rock, and then I placed the other above it. I searched for foot holes with the toes of my tennis shoes. I slowly began my ascent. After what seemed like an hour of climbing, I decided to look down to gauge my progress. To my grim displeasure, I was only about six feet off the ground. At this point, I was determined to continue my journey to the top to defeat my fear of heights. After each unsure, shaky step I eventually made it to the top of the mountain.
I wish that I could say that after I got to the top that I basked in the glory of my accomplishment. However, I took one quick glance, became nauseous, and high tailed it down the trail. That day I didn't defeat my fear of heights, but I took a very important small step in the right direction.
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