Jan 06 2009
Fear of Heights
Not long ago I read a blurb in a popular magazine that was very similar to the one you see below:
Dear Dr. Mind-Mender:
I’m afraid of high places like tall bridges or even the top shelf at the grocery store. It’s not because I’m afraid I’ll fall - it’s because I have an overwhelming urge to jump! I’m not suicidal, but I do want to experience that sense of flying or floating. Naturally, I know that if I did jump I’d splatter all over the pavement and they’d have to pick me up with some real heavy duty paper towels - so the desire to do so scares the hell out of me. What do I do?
Butch Cassidy
Initially I thought the writer was a real nut case, but then I calmed down a little and looked at myself. Although I’ve never wished to jump, I do have a special fear of heights which became very apparent during a small misadventure when I was 15 years old.
In May 1970 I was a sophomoric high school sophomore and the John Hancock Building in Chicago was a new landmark. The observation deck on the Hancock’s 94th floor was a major attraction and everyone just had to pay it a visit.
Actually, I had been looking forward to the trip. After all, what could be better than having Chicago at your feet? The year before some of us had been up on the Board of Trade’s observation deck where we had discovered the joy of throwing campaign buttons out the open windows and watching them ride the wind through the high rise canyons of the Loop. I expected even better of the John Hancock.
We needed to switch elevators to reach the 94th floor. Yes, I know that these days an express elevator shoots all the way to the top at 20 mph, and even back in 1970 we rode one of those ear popping rocket cars most of the way, but I remember having to switch. The second car had only to cover four floors or so.
Anyway, the long anticipated moment finally came when the last ding signaled our arrival. I was ready to view the Windy City from new heights.
Or so I thought…
Once those elevator doors parted, my enthusiasm unexpectedly changed to terror. There weren’t any walls!
I had expected to walk into a room with at least waist-high walls that had windows. Instead I was thrust into a mile high bubble. Sure, there was a solid floor and a solid ceiling, but everything to my front, left and right was a giant picture window.
I took two steps onto the deck and froze.
It seemed as if there was nothing supporting me. Chicago was truly at my feet, but I felt like my feet were planted on a tiny postage stamp. Vertigo seized me. I felt light-headed, giddy, on the verge of fainting.
“Oh my God,” I thought. “What if I black out and piss in my pants!”
“Get moving Tom! You’re blocking the people behind you,” chided Roy Janiowiak.
“Oh, yeah,” I mumbled.
I forced myself to shuffle two more steps forward and then sidled a few more feet to the right to clear a path for the other tourists. Once they had surged past, I hurried straight back to the central wall/pillar that enclosed the elevator shaft.
Once I had my back to the wall my dizziness subsided and the urge to urinate disappeared. I could even look out to the smoggy horizon without cringing, but looking at anything in the foreground scared me to death.
What was wrong with me? There was Mike White standing a couple feet away from the edge blissfully shooting photos. Harry Poulous was even leaning carelessly against a window pane looking straight down on Chicago Avenue. The only way I was getting to where they were standing was by crawling on my hands and knees.
What a shame!
Eventually Harry talked me into approaching the windows, but he practically had to hold my hand to get me to within 4 feet of them. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I hated it.
In the years since I’ve been on a bunch of aircraft - both airplanes and helicopters. I’ve even done some rappelling off towers and cliffs. I’ve always been comfortable on aircraft, even fighting to sit at the window.
Although I’ve had to push myself to do the rappelling, as long as I’m attached to a rope I’m OK. But if you put me on top of the world with only my two feet beneath me and no third point of contact with Mother Earth, I’ll quiver like jelly.
What’s up with that?
