So many fears. Which one to pick?
So yea, I'm no Gryffindor. Just filled to the brim with apprehensions and fears galore: talking to people, talking in front of people, being judged by people I respect, getting sorted into Hufflepuff if I were to go to Hogwarts, going to a Justin Bieber concert. Drunk people used to terrify me. The list goes on and on.
However, there was one thing that used to haunt me like nothing else. This was a previous fear, and thankfully I'm (mostly) over it now, but when I was in fourth grade, I had a massive fear that everything I ate was poisoned, or that any type of toxic cleaner that I came in contact with, I would somehow end up ingesting and getting killed from. Yes, I know, I was a strange little lass. I blame it on watching too many crime shows, especially Monk, with my family. I distinctly remember one in which a man had poisoned a certain stack of candy bars at a drug store because he knew that his ex-wife went and bought one every night. The thought that kept running through my mind was what if that really happens here, and what if I go and buy a candy bar that just so happens to be poisoned but it's meant for someone else and then I die! Needless to say, I got into my fair share of panics. It started off with me being suspicious of any food that I didn't know exactly where it came from. This only continued to escalate until I reached a point where I refused to eat anything at all for three days straight. What finally broke me was my mother threatening to take me to the hospital where they would have to feed me through an IV, which I was not to keen on doing. She finally convinced me to just eat some scrambled eggs and that was the end of that. That was the climax of this whole ordeal. Of course, I didn't give up on being suspicious of everything that I ate, but it never got so drastic as that again. I ended up grudgingly going to a therapist for a while, which I did not enjoy one bit. While I thought and still think that the whole thing was a load of rubbish, my mom still insists that my therapist's final act of trying to hypnotize me out of my fear was what finally convinced me of the irrationality of my fear. I continue to disagree, due to the fact that I wasn't even paying attention to the woman, choosing instead to think about my upcoming dance recital and to practice said tap dance on one of the armrests of the couch that she had me lying in. I was glad to be rid of that therapist when I finally stopped going.
Well, now that I've put this out there, I sound like a complete nutter.
So yea, I'm no Gryffindor. Just filled to the brim with apprehensions and fears galore: talking to people, talking in front of people, being judged by people I respect, getting sorted into Hufflepuff if I were to go to Hogwarts, going to a Justin Bieber concert. Drunk people used to terrify me. The list goes on and on.
However, there was one thing that used to haunt me like nothing else. This was a previous fear, and thankfully I'm (mostly) over it now, but when I was in fourth grade, I had a massive fear that everything I ate was poisoned, or that any type of toxic cleaner that I came in contact with, I would somehow end up ingesting and getting killed from. Yes, I know, I was a strange little lass. I blame it on watching too many crime shows, especially Monk, with my family. I distinctly remember one in which a man had poisoned a certain stack of candy bars at a drug store because he knew that his ex-wife went and bought one every night. The thought that kept running through my mind was what if that really happens here, and what if I go and buy a candy bar that just so happens to be poisoned but it's meant for someone else and then I die! Needless to say, I got into my fair share of panics. It started off with me being suspicious of any food that I didn't know exactly where it came from. This only continued to escalate until I reached a point where I refused to eat anything at all for three days straight. What finally broke me was my mother threatening to take me to the hospital where they would have to feed me through an IV, which I was not to keen on doing. She finally convinced me to just eat some scrambled eggs and that was the end of that. That was the climax of this whole ordeal. Of course, I didn't give up on being suspicious of everything that I ate, but it never got so drastic as that again. I ended up grudgingly going to a therapist for a while, which I did not enjoy one bit. While I thought and still think that the whole thing was a load of rubbish, my mom still insists that my therapist's final act of trying to hypnotize me out of my fear was what finally convinced me of the irrationality of my fear. I continue to disagree, due to the fact that I wasn't even paying attention to the woman, choosing instead to think about my upcoming dance recital and to practice said tap dance on one of the armrests of the couch that she had me lying in. I was glad to be rid of that therapist when I finally stopped going.
Well, now that I've put this out there, I sound like a complete nutter.
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