Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Autophobia: the fear of being alone, or of oneself. I think my fear of being alone started when my parents divorced. Scientists say memory begins at age four; I don't remember a lot of what happened, only that every one was angry. Daddy says Mom abandoned us every night so she could party. Mom says if she had stayed, she would have killed herself. I look at pictures of our family from a time I don't remember. These people look happy; their stories don't match.

Athazagoraphobia: the fear of forgetting, or being forgotten. Mom left our family in the middle of the night, to live with her sister in Arizona. She came back two months later, expecting us to have forgotten about everything, but we were a team and we didn't need her. We were a family with no room to grow.

Daddy spent years after the divorce jumping from dead-end relationship to dead-end relationship. A person is worthless if they're unwanted. My Daddy knew this, and he taught it to me. He would date women with extra baggage (abusive children, drug addictions), so he could feel needed. Daddy adopted their personalities for a short while, then realized he was unhappy as they were walking away. Some may say, "It's not right for a man to cry." At my house, it was a common occurrence.

Dementophobia: the fear of insanity. I've been a self-diagnosed manic/depressive since the sixth grade, when I first heard the term. I would lock myself away in my room to cry... lay in bed for hours.... I hid my emotions behind a fake smile. I hated everyone I had ever met, including myself. My ambition was gone. My dreams had disintegrated. But no one noticed. No one knew. Atychiphobia: the fear of failure. I had lost control, and I wanted it back.

I found power in many small places, and I savored the time it spent in my hand. Power was hiding in drugs, and in alcohol. It danced in the darkness while I gave myself away. Power glowed in my eyes as I heated a lighter, and resounded in my screams when the pain became too strong.

In March of 2003 I began therapy. I was sent to a counselor named Betty Anne Derryberry, who asked me to talk out my problems with my inner child. My family doctor did nothing but throw pills at me. After two appointments I knew it wouldn't work, and I moved on. I started seeing a psychologist named Michele Steigleder; a lively older woman with a composure I coveted. I trusted her with my thoughts, but I never found the words to get them out. I was afraid of disappointing her, so I went back to playing happy. After eight months I had her convinced, and she let me go.

.:dr0wningophelia:. 14:29 | |