Many children grow up in homes where they witness horrific things, robbing them of their childhood innocence early on. They become tough in order to survive. I’m happy to say I didn’t have that kind of childhood, so toughness was not a part of my makeup. On the other hand, being overly protected has its drawbacks as well.

Thinking back to my childhood, I don’t remember ever asking anyone for advice. I didn't have a friend I felt secure enough with to share my deepest secrets. It might have been very different if I’d not had the misfortune of being an only child. I could play with other kids and be silly and laugh with them, but I was convinced things which went on in my brain would likely freak them out.

I had Mom, who was always telling me what I should think and believe about everything. When I was four, I assumed she knew it all, but gradually I began to develop thoughts of my own. How could she possibly understand what someone my age needed to know? Dad was there, but our relationship was superficial. He’d been an only child himself, and communicating about feelings wasn’t his forte. He'd leave that to the women in the family.

My grandmother had a bit of advice to give, but I couldn’t imagine how it applied to me. Grandma’s advice went like this. “Get yourself a good education, and don’t ever depend on any man.” Poor grandma. She married twice, but thanks to her brother, not to the one she loved. The first husband was a lawman, who was killed after a couple of years leaving her with two babies. The second husband was "a marriage of convenience" to a much older man. He already had nine children. I wasn’t likely to fall into that trap.

Reading was my passion, and I read everything which the juvenile section of our local library had to offer. Sometimes, what I read was frightening or heartbreaking. I couldn’t go through life afraid of my shadow or with tears streaming down my cheeks. Kids who cried were the ones who were bullied at school. I wasn’t going to risk that. So far, I’d been lucky, and no one had seen my tears.

I was eleven when I decided it was time for me to take control of my own life. No doubt, something I’d read in a book inspired these thoughts. Maybe it was some brave or adventurous character I wanted to be like. At any rate, I decided I needed to figure out a way to toughen up. I had too many fears and emotional reactions holding me back.

At ten, I’d been carried aloft by a tornado. The experience left me shaking in terror during any threat of a thunderstorm. It took months to overcome that fear, but after forcing myself to stand outside during a few electrical storms, I actually started to enjoy them. They became my favorite kind of weather.

I read stories about young tribal Indians having to suffer great pain to prove they were brave. Maybe dealing with physical pain was the way to go. Some walked on hot coals. I tried walking barefoot on sharp rocks. I forced myself to sit, with bare legs, on a metal tank heated by the summer sun and close to boiling point. I sunk my teeth into my arms and stuck needles in my fingers to produce a dot of blood. Maybe now I wouldn't fear dog bites or the vaccine needles that made me cringe. I managed to hide my injuries from Mom, and congratulated myself that my blistered, bruised and battered body was becoming tougher.

Now, I needed to work on overcoming my fears. I would need to face my phobias head on. I was nervous about what might lurk in the dark, so I challenged myself to sneak outside and walk around the house after midnight.  I cringed at every shadow, but I managed to get back inside safely. I was afraid of heights, so I climbed as high as I dared in trees. I climbed a ladder nailed against the wall of our barn and dared to step over into the loft. I was afraid of stinging insects, so I sat very still and let them buzz around me without moving. It was all I could do to remain still when a wasp actually lit on my nose. I closed my eyes tightly and scarcely breathed until he moved on.

Mom had seen to it I would overcome my fear of performing on stage by insisting I take drama and piano lessons. My heart still raced, but I learned to handle it without fainting..

After my recent episode of freaking out in fear, thinking I was seeing a dead person, I realized this was going to be a tough one. I vowed to attend the next funeral that took place. When a great aunt died, I shocked everyone by agreeing to go with Mom and Dad to the services. It was one of the most traumatic tests I had set for myself. With my heart in my throat, I stared down at her body lying in the casket. With trembling hands, I reached in and touched her cold stiff fingers. I might suffer some nightmares, but I was making great progress. I had a reason to be proud.

I was terrified of being left at home alone since we had no close neighbors. But the next time Mom had to go into town or visit someone, I determined I would no longer be her shadow, I insisted on staying behind. Every unknown noise made my heart race, but after surviving it a few times, I began to feel at ease. In fact, I started to enjoy having the house to myself. Another fear was behind me.

My reading material took on a different flavor. No more Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twins for me. I went for Alfred Hitchcock, Truman Capote, Zane Gray, James Street, Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell. I was succeeding at controlling my fragile easily-fractured ego. Tears were a thing of the past. I had gotten to the point Mom was concerned that I wouldn’t cry even if she died. She was right. I may have taken it too far. I'm incapable of crying in public. Even in private, tears no longer come easily.

I finally decided I’d probably reached my goal. I didn’t want to turn into a bully or a juvenile delinquent. I had taken it far enough to gain a new outlook on life, and most of my fears and tendencies to be overly sensitive were  behind me. I don't know if other kids ever set out to systematically change the direction of their lives. Maybe they don't need to, but it seemed to work for me.

When I was fifteen, I met a young man, nine years older, who would eventually become my husband. He was convinced I was far more mature than other girls my age. He’d find out later, when he moved me to the city, I was pretty naïve in other ways, but even then, I managed to adjust.

These days, when I’m faced with something I feel nervous about, instead of shying away, I’m likely to remember the best way to deal with life is to face it head on.