Phobia (8 page)

~ 15 ~

The following evening was another scheduled live discussion with the group. Colin sounded breathless, like he was running late. He apologized for being out of touch for the past few days. He had been busy studying for exams.

“My sister has been riding my ass these days,” he explained. “She’s accusing me of spending too much time with you and not enough time studying. I had to prove her wrong, of course.”

“I understand, Colin. Guess what? I’m ready to talk to the group!”

I had decided to take a turn and talk about my phobias. I had written my contribution ahead of time so I wouldn’t get tongue-tied. Since I’d started writing down my dreams, the words flowed easily. I’d found I was able to express myself better in writing than by speaking.

The session went well. I listened to each member’s contribution, expecting to hear Amona speak up again. She did not. I didn’t care. I was ready to use my real name.

I waited patiently until the end of the session, when I was certain everyone was finished. I didn’t want to take the chance of being interrupted.

When Colin asked if anyone else had anything to share, I took my turn. I read my piece from start to finish without stopping, and for the first time I felt like I had successfully spoken my mind.

Writing alleviated one of my fears – the one I called FOBPOTS, aka Fear Of Being Put On The Spot. FOBPOTS was the reason I never answered the phone or the door. I was terrified of being put on the spot with unexpected questions or confrontations.

I’d made a lot of progress with the live sessions. Before I met Colin and the group, all of my communications were done via email or text message. I never would have considered any kind of live chat.

My avoidance of the phone had cost me several personal relationships. After the deaths of my parents, the only family I had left was my aunt Ellen, who expected me to be present at all holiday dinners and participate in regular phone conversations. That wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been so critical, but no conversation with Aunt Ellen was complete until I’d been force-fed a generous helping of her opinion.

Every conversation with Aunt Ellen was pretty much the same:

“What are you doing for work?”

“I’m still at the ad agency.”

“What do you do there again? A secretary?”

“Actually, my title is office assistant.”

“But you just sit in front of a typewriter all day, right?”

“No. I use a computer and do data entry.”

“Same thing. You’re a secretary. Maybe you should quit that job and look for something better.”

Sigh.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“You’re getting older, you know. Pretty soon nobody’s going to want to marry you.”

“What makes you think I want to get married?”

“Well, how else are you going to have children?”

“What makes you think I want children?”

“What woman wouldn’t want children? You’re not one of those
lesbians
, are you?”

“No!”

Aunt Ellen had a computer and an email address but she didn’t understand the concept. Her idea of email communication consisted of,

Subject:

Call me.

Message body:

Did you get my message? Call me.

The message on my answering machine would consist of yet another request for me to call her. It drove me insane, not knowing why she wanted me to call, although I was pretty sure it was just going to be a repeat of the same conversation.

Why couldn’t she just state what she wanted in the message? For that matter, why the hell couldn’t she just say what was on her mind in an email? It was free, for heaven’s sake! No long distance charges and no being attached to a stupid handset for a long, tedious conversation.

What the hell is wrong with people?

When my anxiety reached its peak, I found myself unable to pick up the phone to return anybody’s calls. I truly meant to, but always found an excuse not to. I would make the call after I had something to eat. I had to take a shower first. I was late for work. After work, I was too tired.

Weeks passed, then months, and I still hadn’t called my aunt back. I shut off the phone’s ringer because I couldn’t stand the sound of it. She never phoned just once. Most of the time when she got the machine she hung up without leaving a message and redialled again and again. Seven, eight, nine, ten times she would call before finally giving up.

When nobody answers the first few times, what the hell makes you think they’ll answer if you call ten more times?

I thought that if I waited her out she would break down and say her piece via email. But she didn’t. Her emails consisted of increasingly angry requests that I phone her.

Now that she was pissed off at me, I found it even more difficult to pick up the phone. I couldn’t phone someone I knew was waiting on the other end to give me shit. She would demand answers but wouldn’t give me a chance to explain myself. I’d have to listen to her berate me for not calling without getting a word in edgewise. If I did get a chance to speak, I’d be frozen like a deer in headlights and forget what to say. Then I’d stammer like the idiot she was making me out to be.

I needed to make a stand or it would never end. My refusal to call her was that stand. I expressed that I would gladly communicate with her but had to insist that communications take place via email. It was the only way I felt I could speak my mind without being interrupted. Aunt Ellen refused. Instead, she just got angrier and angrier.

I felt like I was being stalked.

The feeling of hundreds of hands pawing at my body grew ever worse – Aunt Ellen’s ongoing demands for phone contact, my co-workers asking me to participate in their social gatherings, random telemarketers calling with surveys, polls or sales pitches.

The phone was my nemesis. I hated it. I wanted to unplug it from the wall and throw it across the room. I considered having the line disconnected altogether, but the house phone was there for
my
convenience, not everybody else’s. If I needed to make a long distance call, my cell phone was outrageously expensive. If I had to call a 1-800 number that would leave me sitting on hold for a long time, it would be at the expense of my cell phone’s battery and bill. Plus, it was a matter of safety. What if I needed to call 911 and my cell phone was dead?

Why should I inconvenience myself or risk my own personal safety just to prevent inconsiderate stalkers from contacting me?

My policy was, no phone message would be returned unless the caller stated the reason for calling. “Call me,” was
not
a reason.

After six months without phone contact with my aunt, I decided an apology was in order. I composed a carefully thought out email explaining why I hadn’t called. I apologized profusely and begged for her forgiveness.

I was honest with her for the first time. I admitted to having clinical depression and chronic anxiety. I explained that one of the symptoms of my disorder was fear of the telephone, which resulted in the inability to answer the phone or return calls. I bared my soul to her for the first time in my life in an attempt to make her see what it was like to be inside my head. I explained it in so much detail I was certain she would be able to sympathize. She did not understand, nor did she sympathize. But she finally expressed herself via email, so perhaps I’d made some progress.

Her reply was shocking, even for her. It was a page-long rant about how it ‘wasn’t about me.’ She told me I was not suffering from depression or anxiety; that I just needed to get over it and smarten up.

If it wasn’t ‘about me’, then who was it about? She demanded to know why I hadn’t called and I’d told her. I expected her to be angry but I hadn’t expected this. Maybe she was right; maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe Aunt Ellen was the one who was mentally ill.

Fine. Fuck her then.
I didn’t need her shit anyway. I didn’t miss the stuffy holiday dinners, which were just one more opportunity for her to trap me and embarrass me in front of other people. I didn’t miss the panic attacks that happened before and after those ‘parties’.

The phone finally stopped ringing. Aunt Ellen had given up on me. I attempted to apologize one more time via email, inviting her to correspond with me that way but all I received was a curt reply saying that she would prefer not to.

At last! Blissful silence!

With Colin, it was different. He didn’t make me feel anxious or nervous. I felt completely at ease with Colin. When I was talking to him, FOBPOTS didn’t exist. When I heard his voice, I felt like I wasn’t afraid of anything.

~*~

~ 16 ~

It wasn’t until after the therapy group meeting during which I’d read my little speech about phobias that I was able to talk to Colin in private again. There was so much I wanted to tell him but had no idea where to begin. The earthquake had happened the day before. Nobody in the group mentioned it, so I assumed it hadn’t been very big. As usual, I let Colin do most of the talking.

“The description of phobias went very well,” he observed. “Totally nailed it.”

“Thanks. I kind of cheated. I wrote it all down.”

“Took a while to get it done, but it was worth it,” he observed.

“Thank you for noticing. It did take me a long time and I agree, it was worth it. It’s easier for me to express myself in writing. I wish more people thought like you do. Did I ever tell you about my aunt Ellen?”

Colin didn’t answer, so I took that as a no.

Before I realized it, I had launched into the entire sordid story of Aunt Ellen and her refusal to speak to me because I couldn’t pick up the phone.

For once, Colin didn’t interrupt. Afterward, he was silent for so long, I began to worry that maybe he agreed with my aunt.

Finally he spoke.

“Mind if I read this to you?”

“Of course not!”

“In Psychology, they teach us to try and see things from the other person’s point of view. It’s not always easy. When you see someone who bullies or tries to control others in order to feel powerful, it’s not easy to step into his or her shoes without passing judgment.”

“Exactly!” I interjected. “You’re the first person who gets it!” My heart swelled with… something. Was it love I felt for Colin? I wasn’t sure, but it felt nice. It was a warm and fuzzy feeling, like my heart was wearing a pair of plush slippers. “Did you feel the quake yesterday?” I blurted, suddenly changing the subject. In rehashing the unpleasant story of my aunt, I had almost forgotten to tell Colin about the earthquake, and the strange dream that had preceded it.

His silence told me that the answer was no.

I reminded myself that Colin probably didn’t live near me. I still wasn’t sure where he was or why he hadn’t told me his location but I didn’t want to push the issue. I figured he would tell me when he was ready.

“It wasn’t a very strong one, but it kind of freaked me out. I dreamed about it right before it happened.”

“Hmmm…” he said. “Maybe that sounds a little harsh, accusing someone of bullying...”

“No, it’s not harsh at all. My aunt is a huge bully and she deserves it. But what about the quake? Did you feel it, or am I crazy?”

“Loony, nutjob, basket-weaver… can you help me think of more slang words to describe the mentally ill?”

I laughed nervously. “You don’t have to sugar-coat it. Tell me what you really think of me.” I hoped I hadn’t scared him off with my nuttiness.
Impossible. The guy’s studying to become a psychiatrist, remember?

“Besides,” I continued, “I’m not picking fruit off the wallpaper quite yet. It’s just a few dreams. That’s not abnormal at all, is it?”

I continued without waiting for an answer. “But these dreams I’ve had lately – they aren’t like anything I’ve ever had before. The freaky part is that sometimes I can’t tell when I’m dreaming and when I’m not. It seems real at the time, and then I wake up, sometimes into another dream.”

“Crazy.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I think this is going to need more work. It warrants a trip to the library.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I was kind of thinking I should find a book on dream interpretations. That’s not a silly idea, is it?”

“Insane, kooky, mad, bonkers… Help me out here, Dana.”

“No, I’m serious. I can’t believe you think it’s crazy. I think it might be helpful. Some of my dreams have been pretty weird.” I sighed. “I’ve forgotten one thing. I can’t leave the house. I can’t go to the library.”

“Oh, Dana,” he sighed, sounding sad and tired. “I wish I could do more for you. But it’s all up to you at this point.”

“I know, Colin. I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.” My eyes stung with tears. I had disappointed him, and now he sounded ready to give up on me.

“Come on, Dana. You can do it. Do it for me. Be brave. Just kick the Devil in the nuts and walk on by. I’ll be right here, ready to take your hand. Please?”

The pleading tone of his voice made me melt. “I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises, okay?” I felt tears running down my cheeks but made no move to wipe them away. “Please don’t give up on me, Colin,” I whispered.

“Yes, I definitely think a trip to the library is in order,” he said. “I wish you could go with me. I bet you love books as much as I do.”

“That’s true. I love to read. Did I tell you I started writing a book?”

“Although,” he said after a brief pause, “I’d rather take you somewhere besides a boring old library. I’d like to take you out to dinner at a nice restaurant, then maybe go dancing afterward, or take a walk someplace quiet, just the two of us.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” he said softly.

“But I can’t leave the house.”

“I know you can’t go anywhere yet. That’s okay. I have my dinner with me and I’ll dine with you right now.

“Aw, you’re so sweet!” I said. “I’m not very hungry right now, but I will share a glass of water while you eat.”

“Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy,” he said, over a mouthful of food.

“No, you’re the guy who takes care of us nutcases. And we couldn’t get by without you.” I told him.

“Better me than you, I guess. Although when it comes to crazy, that aunt of yours truly takes the cake. Now there’s a psychopath! Just my amateur opinion, of course.”

“I couldn’t agree more! If anyone needs to be in a rubber room, she does!” I laughed.

I went to bed that night with a light, fluffy feeling in my heart. To have Colin validate my belief that my aunt was a certifiable nutcase made my heart soar. He had a way of making me feel as close to normal as I ever had.

Oh, to be normal. To have a real-life romance for once – with a real man instead of some loser.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

~*~