Personal Narrative: California Screamin

The shrieks and screams of those before me, I later learned, were of joy, not fear. Yet, while I stood in line for California Screamin’, I was positive that I had just condemned myself to approximately sixty seconds of torture when I agreed to accompany my friend on the ride. I took a shaky breath, clenching my clammy hands into fists and staring up at Mickey’s sinister smile on the sign, attempting to trick me into complacency. The sugary scent of churros and the chaotic hum of the amusement park around me did little to console me. The happiest place in the world? Yeah, right. At that moment, I was anything but happy. I was terrified. And I hated it. My lengthy and troubled past with roller coasters stems from my acrophobia and my preference to keep my two feet solidly on the ground. I could never comprehend how some actually enjoyed being tossed around like rag dolls and having their heart leap into their throat. During the entire duration of my first time on a drop tower ride, I had my eyes shut tight and my mouth clamped shut. Surely
Six years later, but time still hadn’t changed my opinion. I looked at the ride, the unforgiving sun glinting on the cold steel. An icy shiver ran down my spine, my palms getting clammier by the minute. I glanced at my friend, jealous of her indifference. Hanging onto the railing, I silently cursed myself for being so afraid. So weak. This wasn’t about riding a roller coaster that scared me out of my wits anymore; it was about proving that I could conquer my fears. My pride wouldn’t let me have it any other way. From the moment that I agreed to go on the ride, I knew that I would have to follow through with my decision. I couldn’t be that little girl who was too frightened to have fun anymore. I didn’t want to be the one left on the bench while her friends ran off to enjoy themselves. The only way to change that would be to prove everyone wrong. To prove myself