Before And After

A man suffers from a handful of extraordinary phobias, and this is an account of the result....or the cause?

             Anemophobia. Rupophobia. Noctiphobia. It’s easy to name a fear, to break down Latin origins of words and slap on ‘phobia’ at the end. It’s easy to label certain torments of the mind, to assume it’s simple. It’s not. I live surrounded by terror. I am constantly suffocating inside of the world’s elements, like being wrapped in an endless sheet of plastic wrap.

Anemophobia is the fear of wind. Imagine being scared of moving air. Where one person feels a wonderful breeze on a hot day, I feel an instant, excruciating anxiety, and my stomach contracts in a terrible internal symphony. However, when I run away from it, the dirt comes up and leaves a nasty cloud biting at my legs. This is my so-called rupophobia, the fear of dirt. But these are things I can avoid in the safety of my apartment. I don’t have to go outside everyday. I don’t have to encounter my irrational monsters. I live off of disability checks, courtesy of the United States government. I can order anything I could possibly need online. I don’t have friends to meet for coffee or a dog to walk. Friends don’t stick around after they know my secrets and dogs carry dirt in their fur.

There is one thing, though, that I cannot escape from. It is inevitable, like death is to life, however well lived. Lastly, I suffer from noctiphobia. The absolute worst fright in my heart is that of night. I shudder now, looking out of the window knowing it’s coming soon. I hope that the sun will stay today. It never does. It’s clockwork, it’s the way of the Earth and space, it is my unceasing awareness of impending doom.

When the night does come, the closest I can get to a sense of comfort is taking a bath. I’m not scared of water. I remember my mother used to bathe me as a child. She nurtured my woes and said I had troubles because I was an old soul. I felt safe then, grinning behind the bubbles, sinking the tiny toy ships she gave me. Now I’m a grown man with no family left, hiding from the night in a porcelain tub.

I wake up there too. Without even checking the watch that I placed next to my towel, I know the sun is rising. I just know, my body knows, the angry flower of anxiety withering away and dropping its last petals. I lift myself out of the lukewarm water and dry myself off. It’s Tuesday. Dr. Mason comes on Tuesdays. My therapist for two years, he claims to have a new method for battling my fears. I am doubtful, as many treatments have failed me. Anxiety medications, exposure therapies, breathing exercises, a myriad of supposed breakthrough techniques brought me nowhere. But I am willing to try, if not for the slim chance that I will be cured then to humor the only person that seems to care about me. Sadly, I pay him to care.

I hear the dull thud of his knock on my door. It’s exactly eleven o’clock. I open the door to greet him before I hear a sudden mean wind roaring outside, and upon seeing my face twist in alarm he hurries into the apartment. I offer a beverage and he politely declines. He takes a seat on the faded red armchair and I on my leather green couch. It’s so cliché, the doctor and his forlorn little patient in their respected places. Him in his suede brown coat with the patches on the elbows, and me in my ensemble of raggedy clothes and paranoid eyes. He rustles in his briefcase, taking out his notepad and pen. I start the usual breathing procedure, inhaling deeply and counting to three. He smiles his soft smile, his brown eyes gazing down at me.

“Sebastian, how are you doing today?”

I hesitate before responding.

“The same as last week, the same as yesterday, the same way I’ve felt my whole entire life.”

“And how is that?”

“Afraid. Alone. Like I am in a dark tunnel with trains coming at me from both directions.”

“Sebastian, without speaking metaphorically, can you tell me some of your symptoms? What happens when the night comes? How do you react when you can’t run from it like you did from the wind?”

I shiver. I hate even imagining it.

“I sweat. I feel hot, then cold, and hot again. I worry somebody is behind me, waiting for me in the darkness. I get dizzy, I can’t see straight. I just want to get away. Stop! I can’t! Stop!”

My head is in my hands, tears are falling fast and my skin breaks out in big red rashes. Maybe I am not just phobic. Maybe I am allergic. Allergic to everything that is natural. Allergic to life itself.

“Okay, okay. Sebastian, start counting to three again. Relax. We don’t have to talk about this right now. Let’s move on.”

My thoughts slow down. After a few moments I am ready.

“I’m fine. So you talked about trying something else today. I want to try. I want to get better.” I say, initiating the next conversation. He seems delighted about my ambition. If only he knew how hopeless I really feel.

“Alright. Now, before I propose this method of treatment, I suggest that you keep an open mind. Only recently have I begun tapping into alternative therapies, so this is as new to me as it will be to you. It is my job as a therapist to find and proceed with the best ways of curing mental ailments, and after researching the effectiveness of this approach I reason that it will be worth a try. Sebastian, have you ever heard of past life regression?”

I have to stifle a laugh. Oh my nonexistent god. It has finally come to this. I steady my voice as to not offend him.

“Honestly, I don’t think…I’m not sure…”

“Sebastian, I know that you consider yourself an atheist and have no concrete beliefs in anything otherworldly. But there has been an astonishing amount of personal accounts of reincarnation that have surfaced. It is not confirmed as fact, of course, but even the scientific community is intrigued by the possibility. In hypnotherapy specifically, the theory stands that once someone has regressed to their previous lives and realizes the origins of their fears, the new insight helps to overcome them in this life.”

I can see that he is really passionate about his discovery, and I don’t want to thwart his eagerness.

“Well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt. I will try,” a sigh slipping out of my mouth between words, “to stay open about it.”

Dr. Mason has me lie down across the couch and close my eyes. I continue my breathing exercises. He begins to talk in slow, delicate sentences.

“I want you to focus on the color white. Let yourself fall into its calming embrace.”

I do as he says and push away the thoughts of how ridiculous this is. He goes on.

“Now, as you’re walking in the white, you are completely free from your burdens. You are invincible and infinite. You are in total control. You see a door. Sebastian, I want you to open the door and tell me what you see.”

            I do feel at ease, he is right. The whiteness is a warm blanket. I feel like I should be sleeping but I am wide-awake on this plane. I think I can hear myself far away, telling him I want to stay here, that I don’t want to open it. But the door is magnetic and pulls me by every thread of my being. I force myself to turn the handle.

The first thing I see is a wide, barren landscape. I’m inside of a different body, and someone is holding my wrists together and yelling at me in Spanish. Others are yelling too, but I am bruised and beaten and can barely hear them. I am being kicked to the ground and dragged by tan arms full of tattoos. I recognize them as gang symbols. More foreign tongues spit at me, and they keep saying “Sauleno! Sauleno!” Is that my name? I feel myself go over an edge, and dirt is thrown on top of me. No! I can’t make it stop! They are yelling and a woman with the widest eyes gapes at me. I think I love her but I’m not sure. She weeps and they take her away, and I choke and try to get out but I can’t breathe. I am being buried alive.

I find myself in the white again, the old door shut behind me and a new one in front of me. Should I go in? I don’t hear the doctor anymore, but I feel him urge me on. I step through.

I am in a house and it is shaking violently. Knick-knacks and precious china plates are shattering on the floor and the windows are busted open, glass spraying the rooms. But the worst part is the sound. It is the sound of a thousand devils screaming outside. I fight against the flapping screen door to see a colossal tornado ripping the town to shreds, and like it knows I’m watching, it turns towards my house.

 “Roth! Come inside! Please!” A voice calls to me and I turn around to see a curly-haired woman with a floral dress and a wedding ring. I recognize her too and I know she’s mine. I run back to hold her but the ceiling collapses on us just as I reach her.

This time I do not go back to the white, but end up in a room. A room for a little boy, with wallpapered trains and cars. I look down at my small hands. I am sitting next to a girl the same age as me. She has pink bows in her hair. We are holding hands. Someone comes in to tell her it’s time to go home. Her name is Susi and she lives next door. The way she looks at me when she leaves, it’s like I’ve seen it a million times before. A woman, my mother I assume, tucks me into bed. She turns off the light and I shut my eyes. Later, I hear a scream. My mother. I hear another. My father? I hear stomping in the hallway and my door swings open. A tall man comes towards me with something sharp and shiny in the moonlight. The moon is the last thing I see.

I bolt upright on the leather couch, sweating profusely and vaguely aware of reality. Dr. Mason is shocked, staring at me.

            “Sebastian, I recorded your entire session. I think we know where your fears have originated.”

            I am angry.

“I just went to hell and back! How do you know I didn’t make it all up? How do I know it’s not just fantastical excuses my subconscious fabricated? We know nothing! This is bullshit! I feel worse! Nothing helps! Nothing will ever help me! Now I’m delusional and perhaps even more psychotic than before!”

            “You should listen to the recording, Sebastian. You felt familiar with your surroundings, with the people that loved you.”

            “I fooled myself. It’s a lie! I can’t do this anymore!”

In one swift motion I am out my front door. I have no shoes on and I feel dirt caking in between my toes. The wind blows against my face. I keep going, ignoring those treacherous aches because I know they will end soon enough. There’s only one solution, one cure. I see the bridge in the distance, and it will be faster if I cut through the park downtown. I pick up the pace, keeping my head down. I am aware that I look crazy. I am crazy. Suddenly I feel panic consume me and I fall to the ground.

A kind voice brings me back. I look up to see the most enchanting woman, with lilac eyes and dark hair streaming over thin shoulders. I don’t think I’ve seen her before. Have I? I’ve known this feeling before; I’ve known her before. I think of what Dr. Mason said. She helps me up. Reality and fantasy collide. Life and death are entwined somehow. Maybe I have lived before. Maybe it is better to believe. Maybe I can heal. And I notice how beautiful her hair looks blowing in the wind.

Author's Note

This was my final for my Creative Writing class, and I received a spectacular grade on it. However, I am an experimental writer and since it was a college assignment it does not contain my usual playfulness with words, indents and punctuation.