As long as I can remember I have had a fear of heights, or to be more specific, a fear of falling. I recall when I was in grade two I had to climb a massive wooden structure, which I was sure, rose hundreds of metres in the air (or so it seemed). Slowly I climbed, palms soaked with sweat, and when I reached the top I had to maneuver through a small opening and come down the other side.
I froze, with absolutely no intention of moving, staring timidly down to the ant-sized classmates below. My teacher, a Christian Brother (this was after all in the Netherlands, and Brothers were in the same category as drill sergeants), was coaxing me to descend. After a few minutes of terrifying torture,