Fear

When I was a little girl, my parents noticed that I had to sit real close to watch TV. Dad decided to take me to an optician, and I came back with a pair of glasses. Throughout my childhood, Dad kept having to take me back there. Because my glasses were increasingly thicker, eye check-up became a phobia. I felt on edge for a whole week leading to any check-up. I was engulfed by pangs of guilt whenever I had to tell the doctor and my Dad that I couldn’t read the first few lines. I felt like I disappointed my Dad. He never really said anything but he looked gloomy. Now and then he suggested me reading a bit less. However, we both knew that the culprit was my gene, not my books.

So I went through schools and undergrad carrying thick glasses and the fear of opticians. It was the kind of fear that made me want to hide. Because I got bad news each time I went there, I figured it out myself that I would be better off not going. I wasn’t born a fighter, and didn’t grow up to be one. I read all the books I could get hold of. I always kept my glass on or nearby. And I loved my Dad more and more each time we went through optician experience together.

Just before my graduation from my bachelor’s degree, I went through an eye operation. Dad and Mum were in the viewing room to see doctors taking layers out of my eyes and put them back. It was like magic. I woke up the next day to see things in the furthest distance I had ever seen without any glasses. Dad finally told me how worried he was throughout all the years we spent going to eye check-ups. He didn’t tell Mum half the things doctors told him there. He didn’t want to worry her. I realized I was too much like him.

After the operation, I got rid of glasses, started to trim my eyebrows, graduated, got a job, got another degree, and a few other jobs.  For six years, I hadn’t been to an eye check-up once. I refused to because regardless of how much further I could see and go, the fear was still inside me.

A week ago, I found myself in an optician. My sweetheart booked an appointment for me, and promised to be with me the whole time. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I fidgeted on the chair pointing toward a board full of letters. I failed to read certain lines. I was recommended to use glasses. I chose a frame, and had an appointment to come back in ten days to pick up my newest pair of glasses.

Soon as I walked out of that place, I felt amazing. It was still as scary as ever at the optician. But I finally chose to face my fear with a head held high. Now I am even looking forward to put on my new glasses.

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