We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. 

a comic by amandoll

The women of my family all love rings. They lavishly adorn themselves with up to three rings per finger, like crazy people. Meanwhile, I can’t even wear a one. Many times so far throughout my life, I have been talked into “just trying on” one of their rings, and I can’t resist, because the jewels glitter. A ring is supposed to be snug so that it doesn’t fall off and you subsequently lose some of your riches. However, if a ring is even the slightest bit snug, the moment I notice, I am gripped with this panic. I scramble at my own hand and am all such as, “get it off of me GET IT OFF OF ME.” Normally, it comes right off, but not before I imagine my finger rapidly turning black and dropping away, stinking and fetid, like I’m suddenly caught in some medieval amputation procedure.

I regret it, a little. I know that rings can get in the way of many daily tasks. And I would hate to lose one, or break away the stone. But I enjoy accessories. However, I do not enjoy the feeling of being trapped, or the thought of losing digits. I keep stretching out my fingers and assuring them that they are free as I write this.

We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. 

 

Irrational Fear Comics: House Centipedes by Amanda Wood

 

It makes sense to be afraid of a centipede because they have the ability to deliver a nasty little bite. Some of them do, anyway. So you should approach them with some amount of care. I actually don’t mind most centipedes. I don’t really want them to be on me, or anything, but compared to this one specific type of incredibly common centipede, the House Centipede, I am practically long time best buds with every other centipede on earth, including those ones that are so big that they can eat mice.

The house centipede is frequently found inside of, you guessed it, a house. They are actually good critters because they hunt spiders and crickets and roaches, but unfortunately their appearance is so terrifying that I would rather live with spiders — and spiders almost terrify me into paralysis, too. But it is nothing like when I see a house centipede!

They have horrifically long legs which are also psychic antennae. I know that their legs are some sort of unholy feelers because if one is walking on a wall and I see it from far across the room, the moment my eyesight lands upon it, it stops. It FEELS my vision. It probably then feeds on my terror, or hones in on my fear so that it can make its way to nest within me when I am sleeping. I am marked when this happens, just like any of you! Have you seen how fast they are?? It is unnatural! Nothing on this earth should ever be even half as scary as these house centipedes are! However, I get the feeling that this fear of mine is “”irrational”” because everyone always tells me to calm down whenever I fly into a panicked outrage as I talk about them. Also, everyone else I know is able to kill them in cold blood, or even trap and release them. I never can. If I can make myself move at all it is in the opposite direction, out of the room, forever.

 

We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. 

unwanted reflection

I have a love-hate relationship with a mirror. Yes, of course I gaze lovingly at my own reflection for shameful amounts of time, but if I am feeling personally haunted or anxious at the time, a mirror becomes a terrible threat to my sanity. Ever since I was a small child and first heard of the “Bloody Mary” scary story, mirrors became menacing. My grandma’s guest bedroom had a big mirror facing the bed, and I learned to sleep facing away from it in case Bloody Mary could be seen in the distance, waiting for me to be brave enough to summon her, which of course I never was. Eventually, and I am not sure how this happened, I decided that Bloody Mary wasn’t real, but what if mirrors were a portal to a backwards dimension from ours, and what if our reflections were doomed to copy us, and watch us jealously? Was that a Twilight Zone episode? Is this all Rod Serling’s fault?

I forgive him.

But I still won’t look in the mirror in the dark just in case I can see myself watching me from where I should not be.

We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. 

irrational fear

Today I am exploring a relatively recent irrational fear. No, it is a fear that I have had for as long as I can remember, but until last month, I thought it was a very reasonable fear to harbor. Dollissa and Frant were visiting me, and I mentioned this preoccupation of mine, and why I could never really enjoy balloons at all, and couldn’t understand why people seem to enjoy them so much when they could kill you. They were bewildered. Then I explained that if a balloon popped and I gasped and it became lodged in my throat, it wouldn’t be easy to get out because it would stick to my insides, and that would be a terrible way to go. Then they explained that my worry was completely insane, and why would I ever even think that. That’s a very good question. Why WOULD I?

Maybe a human gasp isn’t strong enough to drag a balloon all the way down your throat. Maybe the odds of the balloon piece flying directly into my open mouth are unbelievably minuscule. But maybe it could happen?? I don’t want to take that chance. Sadly I can’t say that my fear has been eradicated by the scoffing of my friends, but I can say that I have had many years of not enjoying the company of balloons, and even water balloon fights had an added layer of dread for me. This irrational fear is staying right in place.

We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. 

irrational fear

Here is another fear that started in too-early childhood. There are many stories about toddler-me pretending to be asleep or dead if there was a man with a beard in the vicinity – even my own family members! One time, my dad’s bearded coworker, who claimed that children always liked him, picked me up when I was around two years old. I shrieked nonstop and grabbed onto his awful beard and would not let go. It took both of my parents to pry me off of his face, and I was so upset and exhausted that I had to go to sleep. He had bald spots on his cheeks where I tore out his beard, and from that day onward, was always clean-shaven. My first act of righting the world’s wrongs.

I no longer fear the bearded as openly as I once did, but I still do not like them. It doesn’t help that if someone has a beard, I can’t recognize them. All I see is beard and some eyes hovering above it. Beards feel gross to the touch, like they are made of centipede legs. I can’t help but suspect a bearded man is up to no good, hiding his identity, or worse, as I decided to depict in the comic today. Maybe a normal human face is shrouded in that beard, but I can’t be sure and I’m not about to risk it.

Sorry, all of my friends with beards. I know you must like your facial hair, but it is true. I’m a little more uneasy around you compared to when you are beardless.

We have a lot of fears. Some make sense; others, not so much. This latter type will be featured once monthly until we run out of material, at which point, we might begin accepting the fears of our readers. irrational fears

Ever since I was a very small child in mere inches of bath water, I would become stridently afraid any time the water became clouded with soap. The moment I could no longer see the bottom of the tub, it was as if I was in the sea which was hundreds, thousands of feet deep, and there was always some creature with a large toothy mouth, gaping wide open, surging up to devour me. As a two or three year old, I would suddenly cry, panic, need the F out of there. It was before I had seen images of sharks, I would imagine. Later, when I was six or so, I found a picture of a shark in a book about aquatic life, and it would also terrify me. I knew to skip the page.

Well, at my age now, I at least don’t immediately get out of the bathtub in a panic, but still, every time the water gets too sudsy, I remember that vision I would have as a child. I might cut the bath short on some days, I will confess.