A similar method for moving beyond a fear is to go back to your memory file of real-life experiences in which you have persevered and overcome challenges. For example， when I feel fearful and nervous about meeting an important person such as Oprah Winfrey， I just tap my memory bank for a shot of courage.
You’re scared to meet Oprah？ What‘s she going to do， cut off your arms and legs？ Wait， you’ve already lived more than twenty-five years and traveled the world without arms and legs. Oprah， I‘m ready for you！ Give me a hug！
STUCK WITH FEAR
When I was a kid， I had what seemed like a very natural fear， a fear of doctors with needles. Whenever I had to get my school vaccinations for measles and rubella or the flu， I’d hide from my mum. Part of the problem was that doctors had a limited number of places on my body where they could stick me. With other kids， they could do either arm or the butt. My abbreviated body offered only one target site， and since my bum sits very low to the ground， it was especially painful for me， even when they administered the shot high in my hip. Whenever I received a shot， I couldn‘t walk for a day.
Because of my disability， I’d spent a good part of my youth serving as a pincushion for doctors with needles， and I‘d developed a very deep fear. I was known for fainting at the mere sight of a hypodermic and syringe.
Once in grade school， two school nurses who apparently didn’t know either my history or much about human anatomy came up on either side of me， pinned me between them in my wheelchair， and gave me shots in both shoulders—where there is very little muscle or fat. It was excruciating. The pain was so bad， I asked my friend Jerry to walk alongside me and steer my wheelchair because I felt faint. Jerry took control， and sure enough， I blacked out. Poor Jerry didn‘t know what to do， so he steered my wheelchair into our science class， with me hanging over the side， and asked the teacher for help.
Knowing my great fear of needles， my mum didn’t tell me or my brother or sister that we were headed to the doctor for our school inoculations. When I was about twelve years old， we had a wild visit that became part of family lore. Mum claimed we were just going in for our school “checkups.” My first tip-off was in the waiting room. We‘d seen this little girl about my age go into the examining area， and then we heard her screaming as she received her shot.
“Did you hear that？” I asked Aaron and Michelle. “They are giving us the needle too！”
My fear kicked in， and I went into a panic. I was crying and yelling， telling my mum that I didn’t want to get a shot， that they hurt too much and I wanted to go home. Since I was the oldest child， the younger kids followed my brave and shining example. They too started caterwauling and begging to go home.
Our mother the nurse had no sympathy， of course. She was a veteran of the hypodermic wars. She hauled her howling and kicking and clawing pack into the examining room like a marine MP dragging drunken soldiers to the brig.
Seeing that sheer panic and pitiful begging was not working， I tried negotiation with the family physician. “Don‘t you just have something I can drink instead？” I bawled.
“I’m afraid not， my son.”
Time for Plan B， as in Brother. I turned to Aaron and asked him to help me escape. I had a getaway all planned out. Aaron was to distract the doctors by falling off the examining table so I could squirm out of my wheelchair and make a run for it. But mum intercepted me. Ever the opportunist， my little sister bolted for the door. A passing nurse grabbed her in the hallway， but then Michelle wedged her little arms and legs in the doorway so they couldn‘t get her into the examining room. She was my hero！
Our hysterical cries could be heard throughout the clinic. Staff came running because it sounded as though we were being brutally tortured. Unfortunately， the reinforcements quickly took the wrong side. Two of them pinned me down for an injection. I screamed like a banshee.
I kept squirming just as they went to jam the needle in my bum. I jerked around and forced the needle to go in and pop out again. So the doctor had to jam it in me again！ My screams set off car alarms in the parking lot.
How any of us—my siblings， my mother， or the clinic staff—survived that day， I’ll never know. The three of us wailed all the way home.
Because I was so afraid， my fears made the pain worse than it would have been if I‘d just let them administer the shot. In fact， I doubled my pain because I did not manage my fear. I couldn’t walk for two days instead of just one！
So keep that little fable from my life in mind： when you let your fears control your actions， you are only asking for serious pain in your bum！
