I was absent-mindedly scraping cream cheese onto a bagel one morning when something fluttered by my head. Many of you recall my reaction the last time we had an uninvited guest in our house, particularly when it flexed its wing in our tub. This was on a much smaller scale, but it still got me thinking.
I think there are two things we are scared of.
There are fears.
And there are phobias.
Fears are those rational, adult anxieties we all suffer through in life. Will I make it home safely on these icy roads? Is the front door locked? Can I defend myself and my family if I have to? Will this pregnancy go all right? Will this marriage survive the bumps and scrapes of life? Will we make it til next payday? Will I be a good enough parent? Will I find a job after college? The little monsters that creaked and groaned under our beds as children crawl up under our pillows to whisper seeds of real, legitimate doubts and concerns into our ears and remind us just how little control we have in life. These are the dangerous fears that we have to bridle with confidence, faith, trust in our loved ones, and even a little self-delusion.
Phobias are the much less serious, at times even silly things that give us the willies. I'm not talking about the temporary, post-traumatic shivers caused by a late-night horror flick; this is more individualized, more personal. The stuff we scoff at now that we've outgrown such petty anxieties and moved on to much more daunting demons. We all had them, maybe you still do. A little. Maybe part of you still does get uneasy at the thought of being alone in the dark. Heights make your head spin. Clowns are still a little creepy. You're a confident swimmer, but you can't ever fully submerge that fear of drowning. Ever since that big angry dog bit you, you've been a bit put off by canines. Spiders in particular are enough to make my wife screech. And as I mentioned earlier, I was inspired to write this by one of my old childhood demons revisiting me one morning.
Don't laugh.
It was a moth.
Growing up I hated moths. They would flutter harmlessly into my bedroom at night, nestle in a comfy corner of my ceiling and perch there, waiting for me to notice. I invariably would. Which sent my seven-year-old head reeling with horrific images of it fluttering down and poking its fuzzy feelers into my nostrils, invading my face as I slept. I would stare at it for hours, daring it to move, flinching and hiding under the covers if it did. I know they're just like butterflies. Cute little fluttery bugs that pollinate flowers. But if there are flowery meadows in hell, only moths flutter there. They unfurl their wings like bats, their insect faces are covered with tiny feelers, and worst of all, they fly. No, they don't just fly, they flutter in hurried, scatterbrained patterns that make it impossible to preemptively strike it from the air. Flies and bees just fly in relatively straight paths; easy to track, easy to kill. Spiders are grounded (it is a merciful God that didn't give them wings) and easily squished. But moths... Moths are evil.
I know it's irrational. But that's what a phobia is, an irrational fear that you can't explain to others. A private anxiety that's latched itself onto your psyche, annoying you throughout all your childhood days and sometimes even beyond.
Just keep a swatter handy. Or a boot.
What are some of your fears?
What were/are your phobias? Please tell me I'm not the only weird one here.
S
No comments:
Post a Comment