What is my worst fear? She thought, staring at the skinny, owl-like man sitting across from her while he tapped his hundred-dollar pen impatiently against a little yellow legal pad. She had been contemplating the question for some time now, and at first had no answer; now she held back because she knew that everything that she said would immediately be relayed to her parents, and the answer would only make them more concerned about her. Instead of answering him, she looked back down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap as they had been for the last fifteen minutes.
What is my worst fear? My fear is that everything I do, I do facetiously, without merit or passion behind the work. My fear is that I do things simply for the sake of being able to tell others that I have done them, or to beat them in a competition. My worst fear is that I am a fake. How could anyone really understand that, though? Her friends wouldn’t; then again, she had never tried to tell them, preferring to keep the dirty secret to herself. Her parents couldn’t, or they would push even harder at her schoolwork than they already did, and after so many years of lying, she didn’t know how much more she could take. And this unwise, uncaring owl before her shouldn’t attempt to venture into the thoughts that she sometimes even kept from herself.
She shifted in the chair and unclasped her hands. Finally, looking up and plastering a fake smile onto her face, she answered the psychiatrist’s query, “I’m really afraid of spiders.”
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