On Phobias
As a kid growing up I was never much concerned with phobias.
On the tomboyish side, I would ride my bike recklessly down New Windsor School
Hill, a feat only attempted by the very brave, or the very stupid. Also,
considering myself a junior scientist, I
collected mice, snakes, bugs and anything that breathed and was smaller than
me, consigning them to jars and aquariums in our basement.... until my parents
caught up with me, that is! It wasn't a pretty sight.
Then, I entered the beginning of puberty and my mind started to really
frighten me! Leaving the bugs, mice, etc. far behind, I was then more concerned
with two things: my hair, and boys. One was directly proportionate to the
other: good hair days meant the possibility of popularity with the cutest boys
in school. Bad hair days meant “go sit in the back of the class and hide behind
the tallest book in my arsenal.” Then,
God help me, my intellect kicked in!
I think it happened one Thursday afternoon in church school.
Sr. Mary Agatha, who we all privately dubbed as “Attila the Nun”, frowned at all of us
public school kids as we squirmed in our desk-and-chair combo things, wishing
it was already 4:30 pm. Looking back on it all now, I am sure she dreaded
spending that hour each week with us as much as we did spending it with her!
Anyway, I digress…
One day she went on and on about the fires of Hell, and how
we would be sent to this horrid place if we died with even one sin our souls! I
never before thought about death because as a very young teen, all I could think of
was what I would do if another pimple cropped up on my face Then, wham! Talk of
death….and worse than that, of the after life! Who knew??! I thought once you kicked
off, that was it, pretty much. I thought that perhaps I might float on the shoulders of an
angel all the way up to heaven and not once have to be afraid of the altitude. (One
phobia conquered, at least!)
Then, Sr. Mary Agatha’s description of the eternal tortures of fire
and brimstone filled my mind with images of gore and intense pain everlasting.
It was all too much! That is when the idea hit me that I was stuck with one
huge, unrelenting phobia: I was, for all intents and purposes, afraid to live! I was afraid to live, because
living meant dying some day. And, unless I died immediately after going to
confession on a cloudy, dismal Saturday afternoon with a hundred Hail Mary’s
still on my lips, I was doomed to spend eternity in a pit of the hottest and
worst fire imaginable! That was a pretty big weight for at 13 year old to carry around with her. I developed an intense anger toward my parents for being Catholics. Why couldn't they have chosen a more user-friendly religion? Again, I digress....
So, I developed a phobia about living and dying. I think I also developed a phobia about nuns and organized religion as well. No, I am sure I did! I know that to this day I break out in hives at the merest hint of the scent of starched linen.
Not that
any of this was any big thing, really. I mean, life
still went on all around me and I participated in it full-force. But every now
and then, that wrinkled brow that scrunched beneath a highly starched snow white
and midnight black veil pops into my mind and Sr’s words haunt me: “You’ll go
to Hell, my dear children!” (I swear, to this day I can hear her cackle, "...and your little dog, too!") So much for
religious education.
I wonder where she wound up? Oh, never mind..that is another
topic for another day!
