Anxiety’s gloved hands were already on my throat

by the time I was 16, so when mechanical issues forced the

cart to a halt on the second floor of the haunted mansion ride, the

darkness didn’t faze me. Nor did the dangling skeletons, vampires

emerging from coffins, or the disembodied hand crawling across the

floor—what scared me was the mirror on the wall opposite me. It was

gilded, slightly crooked, and housed my reflection: young, uncertain of what

hung just around the figurative and literal corner. Someone

in the cart behind me—whom I couldn’t see—started screaming:

Just get me out of here! My reflection in the mirror laughed: who are you

kidding? You’re never getting out. Even then, I knew it was a metaphor. As the

lights flickered on, I considered how comfortable I felt, how I might be

more afraid of leaving than staying. That would become a theme—the

novelty of fear stroking my hair with its long claws. The strobe lights were my

obsessions, my heartbeats; the audio of sinister laughter and screaming  

people was my life’s soundtrack. I thought: that coffin would make a fine bed. A

quixotic plan, I now realize, but at the time I was possessed with a

rare combination of adolescent idealism and dread that made the idea

seem rational. The ride restarted and the cart made its way outside, where

the ride attendant informed us where to go for a refund. Next time,

use your voice, I imagined him whispering to me. I will, my imaginary self

vowed—it’s not that I was afraid to scream. I was afraid no one

would hear me if I did. The attendant smiled, reassuringly, revealing

xanthic teeth that reminded me of a row of gravestones that have

yellowed with age. This was long before the era of hopping on

Zoom to tell my therapist: I’m lost again, it’s dark, I can’t find my way through.