In a Position to Conquer Her Phobia

My neuroticism is a trait loved ones associate with me as readily as my crooked smile, passion for Sunday-morning crossword puzzles and sponge-like absorption of supermodel trivia. Once I told a friend I was trying to visualize, and thus affirm, a phobia-free me. His reply: “My God, what would be left?”

By preschool age, I was already a veteran white-knuckler. From time to time, my mother’s demanding job necessitated that she deposit me at the chaotic home of her friend, Mary, who was saintly and nutty enough to baby-sit me while chasing after her two warring toddlers. Upon her return, Mom would find me in the throes of kiddie post-traumatic stress syndrome, clutching my stomach and hiding under a blanket on the couch. When asked what had made me sick, I’d groan: “Mary’s house is too messy.”

As I grew, so did my ability to what-if myself into a frenzy. Like any good control freak, I viewed my fears not as challenges to embrace, but as life-or-death scenarios to dodge as artfully as possible. Sometimes, my slavish devotion to phobias worked in my favor. Thanks to my Vomiting Fear (“I could choke and die!”), I sailed through high school and college parties without ever over-imbibing. And my Germ Fear (“Will my antiseptic cleanser annihilate even antibiotic-resistant TB?”) has kept my kitchen counters shiny and my hands sweet-smelling although a bit chafed. But more often, my demons have prevented me from experiencing the finer things in life. For years now, I’ve had this Martha Stewart backyard fantasy: just me, a nice pair of Smith & Hawken garden clogs and a passel of tulip bulbs waiting to be planted. Unfortunately, I’m so petrified of earthworms--to my eye, they’re killer entrails--that the thought of uprooting moist topsoil makes my stomach lurch, which then triggers the vomiting issue.

Until recently, the grande dame of all phobias, a whopping 9.9 on the Anxiety Richter Scale, was my Handstand Fear. I believed with every fiber of my being that if I stood on my hands, I’d fall on my head, snap my neck and make a really ungraceful exit. Once I got past elementary school P.E. classes, I had little cause to think about handstands--until a few years ago when I took up yoga.

Besides whipping me into great shape, yoga had the added benefit of calming me down for 90 consecutive minutes. It taught me to breathe more efficiently, to create space in my body instead of doing my usual pretzel number. The emphasis on balance and on sustaining the postures helped to anchor me psychologically as well as physically. Yoga and I seemed like a match made in nirvana. I quickly progressed to the intermediate level, where I came face to face with my old nemesis, the dreaded handstand.

Handstands, I was told, do all sorts of good things for one’s circulation and internal organs. Certainly, these inversions agreed with my classmates, all of whom could spring onto their palms with the ease of 10-year-old Cirque du Soleil performers. Watching them, I felt my stomach sink and my heart race. Suddenly, I was back in fifth-grade gym class, once again “the spaz” that the team captains fought over not getting. Time after time, I’d stand against a wall, prop myself on my hands, managing only to cajole one leg a feeble 90 degrees upward. Often I wouldn’t even attempt the posture, instead cocooning myself into the “embryo” position, my head pressed against the floor. Sometimes a teacher would try to assist me into the pose. Inevitably, my body would assume a rigor mortis-like stiffness. I’d babble intricate excuses until the teacher backed off, nodding sympathetically and giving me that “you poor, unevolved bag of neuroses” look.

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Gradually, being the sole handstand abstainer started to weigh on me like an unusually heavy and smelly albatross. I coveted my classmates’ ability to have fun balancing upside down. I envied their chiseled back and shoulder muscles. But most of all, I hated the fact that my fear controlled me, that it kept me from doing something that, deep down, I desperately wanted to do.

Having heard reverent musings from other yoga students about an amazing teacher, I decided to check out Steven’s class. Despite my nonconformist nature, I became an ardent Steven follower. He never made us chant and never subjected us to hyper-serious, New Age ramblings. He led a strenuous, challenging class instead of a wimpy, “wherever-you-are-is-OK” kind of class. And he possessed a unique combination of inner peace and wit, kind of like Gandhi reincarnated as a stand-up comic.

A scrupulous taskmaster, Steven regularly patrolled the room, his hands clasped like a monk, his feet silently padding the floor, eagle eyes searching for an erring student. In a nanosecond, he’d bolt to that person’s side, straightening a limb here, smoothing out a curve there. He was tenacious about his students’ weaknesses, regarding the most cumbersome body type or restrictive physical limitation as diamonds to be mined from the rough.

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He was also obsessed with handstands. Naturally, I became his pet project.

My old avoidance tricks didn’t work with Steven. Come handstand time, if I curled myself into the embryo position, he’d curl himself alongside me, grinning with amusement. If I chose to do a “right-angle”--an easy handstand alternative--instantly his feet would appear by mine, and he’d hover, utterly unfazed by my defenses.

“You’re certainly strong enough to do a handstand. Why don’t you want to do one?” he asked once.

“I’m afraid I’ll snap my neck,” I whined.

“Hmm, well . . . that’s not entirely beyond the realm of possibility,” he replied cheerfully. “Let’s see what happens!” he said, giving my legs the old heave-ho before I could over-think myself into paralysis.

This little dance went on for weeks. I’d protest, Steven would indulge me to get me off guard, then he’d fling my legs against the wall. Once my feet were secure and I realized my spinal cord was in one piece, I found I liked handstands. My body began to “understand” the posture, that it was more about balance than muscle, more about shifting weight onto my back and shoulders than on to my flimsy bird wrists. I no longer felt wobbly upside down; I felt strong, steady. This newfound physical confidence had a wonderful effect on my mind, seemingly redirecting my panic-stricken neurons through friendlier synapses.

And then, one day, my mind and body got into sync. I sensed that I was ready to pop up on my own, and without much thought, I did. It was an exhilarating moment, a rite of passage akin to losing one’s virginity in a room full of people. Instantly, Steven was at my side, squeezing my skyward legs with equal parts delight and relief. For weeks after my first time, I couldn’t get enough handstands. I’d walk around the house and think, “Wonder what it would be like in the dining room?” or “Hey, how about outside where the neighbors might see?”

Now that some of the luster has worn off, a handstand is just another thing I can do. With this awareness has come a quiet fulfillment, a sense of peace knowing my former phobia no longer controls me. Because of this achievement, my entire psyche has undergone a subtle shift, much like tremors resettling the Earth after a big quake. Because I know it’s possible to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles, I find myself more willing to take risks. Challenges still scare me; the difference is, they also inspire me. I now believe, as Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “One must do the thing one thinks one cannot do.”

That being the case, I’ve decided to take up gardening. I’m told there are no earthworms in potting soil.

Virginia Gilbert is a recovering screenwriter who lives in Los Angeles.