Heights

“I’m afraid of heights,” I say to my friend Morgan as we cross the St. John’s bridge in northern Portland. I’m showing them around my favorite spots in my new city, the one I escaped to to start a new life, just like in the movies. 

“Oh, that’s normal,” they respond, looking at the view of the skyline on one side of the Willamette and Mt. Hood on the other.

I know it is normal, and that’s why I say it. That’s what I tell people when I turn down a hiking or climbing trip or when I breathe deeply and walk slowly across a beautiful bridge.

A “normal” fear of heights is a fear of falling unintentionally, unexpectedly. A car whizzes by too quickly, too loudly, and you lose your bearings. 

However, my fear is the intrusive thought telling me to jump. Not always when I’m sad, just a little cackling maniac in the back of my head egging me on. Not to gnash myself against rocks at the bottom, not to try my hand at flight, not necessarily with plans to end it all. Just to jump. 

The voice is bright golden yellow and sharp. It gives me a moment to rest, enjoy the scenery, but then it says hello with a pop. 

My fear is a day when I forget to fight it off, when the blue-green heart of mine will take the day off from soothing my head, snatching up evil words and churning out affirmations. My fear is that all of my senses will leave a “gone fishing” sign on the door and let me go.

“All right, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Morgan tells me as we get to the other side of the bridge. “We just have to walk back to get the car.”

Elena Ender has loved every bit of reading for and editing literary publications Tin House and Masters Review. She spends her time writing snarky fiction, listening to 2007 pop-punk, and driving around the streets of Portland, OR. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as: @elena_ender.