At the tender age of two years old, I was quite fearless. I wanted to do and see everything. I would have jumped from the highest rock into the ocean, I would have talked to anyone even if they seemed creepy and mean, I would have played with spiders and lady bugs and swam in deep dark forest ponds full of tadpoles and imaginary sharks. My godmother once told my mom to keep a watchful eye on me because I was adventurous enough to do anything.

As a little girl growing up on an island, there were few things as exciting as a county fair. With all the cotton candy and the games and the lights and the rides, it couldn't get much better than that. And then there was the rollercoaster: the big, shining, roaring centerpiece. I wanted to go on the rollercoaster so bad that, according to my mother, I cried such pitiful tears, miserable that I was so young and so small. So, because she thought I was so adorable and brave, she asked the man at the barrier rope if she could bring me on the ride even though I was a good foot shorter than the height requirement, and he, thinking I was so adorable and brave, said yes.

I don't remember much about the ride, except for the moment when we reached the highest point. I looked over the edge and saw what looked like rags tied to the legs and supports of the rollercoaster, and my 2 year old mind sincerely thought that those rags were all that were holding this big machine together and that meant that I was going to die: I was GOING to DIE. Then all of a sudden, the tin can that was bringing me to this peak dropped out of thin air down the first ramp, and my tiny body would have flown out of it, if not for my mother’s panicked grip. I must’ve passed out from terror because I don’t remember anything after that.

Every brave thing I’d ever attempted before that point would never be attempted again. I became shy, the mere taste of adrenaline bringing me to tears. I remember watching a horror movie called The Gate with a group of older kids in my church group and following that movie I couldn’t watch anything with even a hint of a scare in it. Beetlejuice was terrifying. The first time I flew in a plane I wept with fear. I don’t think it was the actual movie or the flight that was so scary, but it was the feeling of my stomach dropping that brought back so many visceral rollercoaster memories. Do you realize how many life experiences give you that sensation? When you try something new, you feel it. When you start a new job, you feel it. When you start falling in love with someone, you feel it. When you have your heart broken, oh boy, do you feel it. It’s always the rush of adrenaline, no matter how big or small, that reminds me of the horrific moment in the rollercoaster when I was 2.

Thirteen years later, when I was 15, I decided that I would conquer my fear. My mom and I visited my family in California that year and they took us to Six Flags. I was going to stare my fear of rollercoasters in the face and give it a kick in the balls by riding the scariest rides possible. I went on The Viper, The Batman, The Cyclone, and more, just to prove that I could. And you know what I learned after that? I really don’t need to conquer that fear. I will always be afraid of rollercoasters. If anything, I learned to embrace the fear and vow never to go on a rollercoaster again.  After each ride, my cousins and I looked at the pictures that were automatically taken of us as we went down a drop. While they were smiling and laughing in the pictures, I was clinging for dear life, my eyes squinted with fearful determination. It was not enjoyable. The fear was faced, and going forward it had no power over me, so in that way it worked. There’s still no fucking way you’re going to drag me back on one of them. Hell to the no.

The other fears that came as a result of the first terrifying moment, in which every little rush of adrenaline had been associated with sure and immediate death, those I would conquer little by little. It started with a tattoo, with its terrifying buzzing sound, and it’s ink and blood. I now have two of them, and hoping for more. Then it was driving a car. It took me a while to get over that fear, but now I complain about the traffic like everyone else here in LA. When I started working as an assistant to one of the most famous horror directors alive, I felt obligated to move past my fear of The Gate and I watch a marathon of my boss’s particularly excellent old school scary movies. My fear of dogs was overcome when I met the most affectionate and dear hearted pit bull named Mama Cass. Then my fear of bees disintegrated when I discovered myself empathizing with their impending doom, also known as Colony Collapse Disorder. Then, (and here was a big one) I squelched my fear of talking to strangers. I had to teach myself how to speak to a person that I’d never met without feeling afraid. Looking them in the eye, smiling at them, sharing something in common.

There’s a list of things that I’m still deathly afraid of. But I think by putting the singular event, the event on the rollercoaster, in a box never to be looked at again, I empowered myself to move past the things that would actually prevent me from enjoying my life. One by one, I’ll get through all of them. The rollercoaster thing though… that’s something I don’t need to return to. I’m perfectly happy maintaining my fear of that one.