I hate the sound of emergency vehicle sirens.
Police sirens aren’t a problem. They’re not going to stop where I live because nothing is happening there to warrent it.
But fire trucks. They inspire an interesting jolt of panic. It can really grip me tight until the siren has passed far enough for me to know the problem isn’t on my block. Where I used to live that was easy. Houses were spaced and if it was far enough down, you didn’t have to worry. The house next door did, but not a house four or five down.
An apartment complex was a concern. The dryer could catch fire in the basement and you could come home to find half the building gone. Or worse. Or if the fire was on the top, the ones below would all have water damage. You were out a home regardless where the fire was.
Here where I am now, you don’t have houses that are five or ten feet apart or twenty feet with a big yard between. They are rows of one house against another, five, eight across, two or three apartments each.
Up to 24 dwellings in one row. Times how many people in each? That is a lot of accidents waiting to happen. That’s a lot of dead, dry christmas trees waiting to flame up and burn the entire row down. And it happens. A fire starts at one end and the entire row is wiped out that fast.
If a truck stops too close, I have to know where it stopped and what’s going on. There was a fire a block or two away and I begged my husband to please go find it and be sure.
Where does this intense fear of fire come from?
I have deduced that it came from a previous life. I have no memory of it. No recurring dreams, as with other things I’ll tell in a moment. I am left with this unexplainable, paralyzing fear and no origin. I accept that it’s there. I don’t think it a horrible fear to have. I think it’s damned smart to fear fire. To respect it utterly…and to be prepared to deal with one should it happen. I remember lying awake nights as a child afraid a fire would happen in our second floor apartment. Outside my window there was a sheer drop to the parking lot. Nothing to stop my fall. I, at the age of seven or eight, was fully prepared to hang from the window and drop and break my leg in order to escape. I had plans for every place I ever lived in. Maybe I died in the Triangle Shirt Factory fire, or something similar.
Another comes with a dream. Until I accepted that this was in fact a past life experience brought forward, I had this recurring dream that I’m walking in a garden dressed in appropriate English Renaissance dress for a noblewoman. A bee is on my hand and it stings me. Sometimes it stings repeatedly. The dream goes black and ends. I surmise that I was allergic to bees and died of a bee sting in a previous life.
Some of our worst phobias may have very real roots in who we used to be in another life. It was very real then and was carried forward into our current life.
Doesn’t mean we’re crazy. It means what we experienced then was so traumatic that the energy of our soul remained more cohesive rather than splitting apart into the swirl of energy around the planet. Remaining more cohesive, it carried over into this life. If we can get over it in this life, perhaps it won’t be carried forward into the next.
I work really hard to be rational about my fear of fire and stinging insects but still maintain that they’re really not all that bad of fears to have! I don’t mind so much if it keeps me safe.