Читать книгу Phobias: Fighting the Fear - Helen Saul - Страница 19

The man stood, arms outstretched, looking at the traffic below. He grinned, threw back his head and laughed. The wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his coat and he seemed euphoric. He started to turn clumsily round and round on the spot, like a small child having fun. A few yards away, his wife stared at him in disbelief. He was dancing on the corner of a parapet on the roof of a San Francisco skyscraper, one step from certain death.

The fictional character Max Klein, played by Jeff Bridges in the film Fearless, had survived a plane crash and became convinced he was invulnerable. His high-rise jig came some time after he walked across a city highway without looking, cars and vans screeching to a halt all around. He ate a bowl of strawberries, knowing that his allergy to them could cause a fatal reaction. Finally, he drove at top speed into a brick wall.

Klein survived a few months of this behaviour, but his life was disintegrating. His close encounter with death during the crash had eliminated his day-to-day anxieties and he felt he did not have to answer to anyone. He became so self-sufficient, not to say arrogant, that he felt little need for the closeness of those around him. He was remote and distant from his wife; he alienated friends with his lack of sensitivity. He spent more time with a young boy he had rescued from the crash than with his own son. He was not working, but spent his days looking at buildings. When introduced to a fellow survivor of the crash, he told his wife he had a feeling of overwhelming love for this woman. He had never felt anything like it before, he said. A few months of this and his wife was ready to leave him.

His psychiatrist was struggling with an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder; Klein himself claimed the crash was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had been extraordinary, and had shown him ‘the taste and touch and beauty of life’. He would not give up this state of mind.

Subjectively, Klein felt more alive than ever; objectively, he stood to lose his wife, son and home, his friends and his livelihood. It is an interesting take on fear. We are so used to portrayals of neurotics crippled by a million anxieties that we seldom stop to think what would happen if we had none at all. Anxiety and stress have a bad image. They are the scourge of the modern age, blamed for everything from undermining happy marriages to destroying sleep and causing headaches. Anxiety exaggerates bodily pains, it ruins good performances at work or school and quenches joy and laughter. It leads to alcoholism, eating disorders, domestic violence. The lifestyle pages of newspapers and magazines are filled with articles about dealing with stress and, we are told, life without anxiety would be wonderful.

Yet in this film, fear is portrayed as the glue that holds lives together, keeps marriages, friendships and careers intact and protects us from avoidable accidents. Klein eventually realises he needs help, regains normal sensitivities – along with his allergy to strawberries – and the story is resolved. Anyone behaving like this in real life would be lucky to escape so lightly.

The anxiety system can go wrong, of course, and we would all like to banish the misery of panic attacks, obsessional behaviour or phobias. Successful treatment for these problems can revolutionise lives and nobody wants to get in the way of this. But evolutionists insist we would benefit from taking a step back and looking at why there is so much anxiety in society. They challenge the prevailing view of anxiety as a wholly negative experience. On the contrary, they say anxiety is a prime motivator, a positive drive, a force for good. It prompts us to achieve at work, to guard our reputation and to keep our families together.

We do not doubt that other animals need the ability to recognise and respond to threats. All living things face danger and must react appropriately if they are to survive. Creatures have a fascinating array of defence mechanisms, each specific to the threats they most commonly encounter. The chameleon changes colour to blend in with its surroundings and hide from potential attackers. A threatened squid squirts ink at its aggressors. Antelope simply run away from lions. Moths are preyed on by bats and have become experts in bat-frequency signals. They monitor the signals continuously and map the direction of their predators’ flight. Only if the bat is heading directly for it does the moth snap its wings shut and fall, as if dead, to the ground. Familiar reactions like these have been sufficient, not for every animal to survive, but to keep the species going.

The intensity of the reaction also has to be appropriate since animals use up precious resources when trying to defend themselves. An antelope that is too ready to give up grazing and run will soon become undernourished; squid do not have unlimited ink. Even the simplest creatures have remarkably sophisticated responses, as demonstrated by American biologist Herbert Jennings, working in Europe at the turn of the century.

Jennings was interested in the ordered and elegant lifestyle of a tiny pond animal called a stentor. A stentor is only one cell big, a trumpet-shaped creature, attached by a ‘foot’ to a rock on the water bed. It has a tube at its base which can provide shelter, and the trumpet is an open pouch at its free end for feeding. Hairs around the edge of the pouch waft in food particles.

Jennings used carmine, a natural red dye extracted from the cochineal beetle. It can be an irritant even for humans and is certainly toxic to tiny animals like stentor. He added carmine to the water tank in which the stentor was living, and simply watched to see what happened.

The stentor did not at first react to the carmine in the water, but then decisively bent away from the oncoming red specks. The gesture is normally enough to keep it out of trouble in the peaceful conditions at the bottom of a pond. It costs the animal little to try, and it can continue feeding even as it defends itself. In Jennings’s experiment, the stentor bent this way three or four times, and when the strategy did not work, demonstrated a second line of defence. It suddenly pushed its pouch out in the opposite direction in an attempt to dislodge any poisonous particles around the mouth. Again this failed, as Jennings continued to drop carmine into the water. Red particles settled on the pouch and a few more similar moves by the stentor proved futile.

Drastic measures were called for, so the stentor retreated. It contracted and moved down into the tube at its base. It waited there for a time but could not wait for ever because a single cell does not store much energy and it cannot feed in its bolthole. It moved tentatively upwards out of the tube, but found the water still full of carmine and had to force itself back down again. It advanced to test the water a couple more times but when conditions had not improved, the tiny creature risked its remaining precious energy, contracted violently, dragged its foot away from the rock and floated away in search of an uncontaminated spot.

Experiments like this have been given new significance by the latest thinking on the adaptive and positive role of fear. A one-celled creature like the stentor has a graded response to a threat, from simply swaying away from the toxin, to pulling up its foot and drifting into the unknown. Stentor allocates its resources meanly so that only the minimum is used to meet a threat. How much more complex, then, might our own reactions to danger be? And could they be built on similar principles?

People do not function in the same way as protozoans, but some of nature’s rules are universally true. A great deal of our knowledge of human genetics, for example, is derived from study of the fruit fly, Drosophila melanogaster. Our genetic material is the very template from which we grow, and yet most of it can be found in a fly. As Oxford Professor of Physiology Colin Blakemore once rather flippantly pointed out we probably share 70 per cent of our genes with a garden lettuce.

Biologists discovered in 1972 that human cells can apparently commit suicide for the greater good of the whole body. Cells normally receive signals from neighbouring cells telling them to keep going, and should these stop, they die. Cell death is part of the normal development of a foetus in the womb. Babies develop with webbed hands and feet but the skin between the digits normally retreats before they are born. The cells in this skin die, they ‘commit suicide’ and allow babies to be born with perfectly separated fingers and toes. When cell suicide was first described, it was assumed to be relevant only to the highest creatures since a single-celled organism cannot benefit from its own death. Twenty years after the initial discovery, though, researchers found that single-celled creatures do indeed die in this way. They apparently ‘lay down their lives’ for the good of their community.

This is just one of many biological similarities between creatures of very different appearance and classification. There is obviously a big difference between the death of a few cells and an all-pervading feeling of fear, but both could be essential for healthy development. Careful observation of animals might help scientists ask more relevant questions about humans. For example, an obvious feature of animals’ fear is that it is necessary. If stentor does not react to a toxin, it dies. If the antelope does not run from the lion, it gets eaten. Max Klein lacked normal fear and stood to damage himself socially, financially and physically. All animals need to be able to respond to danger. But how does that help us understand the common phobias?