Anatomy of a phobia

From time to time, you'll hear of people with phobias of seemingly ridiculous things. People afraid of string, chins, the number thirteen - things that are not scary. Because there are things that are scary. The dark? Pretty terrifying under the right circumstances. Things of evil and danger lurk in the dark. Heights? they're apparently one of the things that we're born to be afraid of. Bugs to a lesser extent are scary. They're creepy, crawly and when they're in your space or up close and personal, they can be a little intimidating for something that you can easily crush with your foot. But how can somebody have a true phobia of something ridiculous? How is that even possible?

I'll do my best to explain what it's like being afraid of something that for all intents and purposes you shouldn't be afraid of. I'm afraid of mushrooms. Yes, mushrooms. It gives me a lot of anxiety when I come across them unexpectedly. Does the idea of avoiding mushrooms dominate my thoughts? Am I totally paralyzed by the thought of encountering mushrooms in my day to day life, even when there's no actual danger? Well no. I'm sure there are people who are afraid of other "normal" things in that way. But it's all a matter of degree. You can be more afraid of something, or less afraid of something.

I look at it like this: The degree to which a normal person should be afraid of mushrooms is so much smaller than the degree to which I am. I'm making a moderate issue out of something that to a normal person isn't even close to being an issue.

This fear of mushrooms wasn't something I was born with. It's a psychological stumbling block, and I can remember the moment when I developed my fear. I was probably 10, and I was at a family gathering for something on my mother's side. Once you get to cousins, and children of cousins on my mother's side, I'm not super familiar with them. It was also held at a little park/rec hall in the middle of nowhere, where there was a very inadequate playground. Between people who were close with each other, but whom I wasn't close with, and no other real distractions, I wasn't having fun at that gathering.

Someone suggested I try playing with a distant cousin's dog. Throw a stick for it. Dogs love fetch, dogs love sticks. But younger me didn't really like dogs. Younger me didn't like throwing sticks to dogs. Younger me was even really bad at selecting sticks for dogs. I selected a stick about the length of a soda can, but it was of a good thickness for fetch. I brought the stick up towards my face to toss the stick...

And there it was. It was about the size of a potsticker, and it was right in my face. Right. In. My. Face. All my dissatisfaction, all my unhappiness about being at this family gathering found a symbol, found a way to make themselves manifest.

I freaked out. I dropped the stick, flung it to the ground and probably let out a little scream. I don't remember anything beyond that. I wasn't in complete mental breakdown mode, I'm pretty sure. But I did not like it, not one little bit. Of course my younger brother and sister found out. And because all children are little shits when it comes to opportunities to traumatize their siblings, the rest of that summer was spent with small mushrooms shoved in my face. I dreaded the rain. I dreaded nature walks. Any chance that fungus would arise, and I did my best to avoid it.

I'm not sure what it is that I'm afraid of. With something like a fear of crossing a bridge over water, there's lots of tangible things that one could be afraid of. But for me, it's not as though I'm afraid I'll ingest a poisonous mushroom and die. What I'm "afraid" of is the mushroom itself. To me, the act of being in the close or unexpected proximity of a mushroom is as frightening as watching a horror film. My chest tenses up. I might let out an involuntary little yell. Most of all, the thought of getting to safety enters my mind. I want to get in my car, get back in my house, go someplace where I know that I'm free from mushrooms.

Time and repeated exposure to the real world have helped, thankfully. I'd like to say that I'm all better now, but that's not true. To me, "all better" means that I wouldn't have this negative reaction. I wouldn't react at all if I was "all better". But I can't do that. I just make accommodations. I know that mushrooms live in the produce section of the grocery store, so I draw a little 3-foot bubble around where they are and I avoid them. I don't make eye contact and I don't get too close. I read labels on soups, sauces. I read menus very carefully and ask if it's ambiguous. I ask to have things made without mushrooms if possible. If that's called into question, I phrase it as an allergy. Which is a real thing: I used to work near a woman who became allergic to mushrooms. If a restaurant can be expected to cater to a real food allergy, they should be able to cover my phobia.

To this day, I still react. Scenes from the remake of Alice in Wonderland made me sink low in my seat, gripping the armrests as though I were undergoing the Ludovico Technique. Recently, following a rare raining in Southern California, a house near where my car is parked had a lawn with maybe a dozen largish mushrooms. Again, I felt that panic, that tightness in my chest. I looked away quickly and instinctively as though I was being shown a real, live torture scene. To this day, I could not touch a portobello.¹ Even if you offered me money, I probably would not. If by some accident, or sufficiently large reward I did touch one, I would flinch, react as though it were a hot stove or festering wound. I'd immediately be filled with the urge to scrub that hand clean. To wash all of the mushroom away.

But I manage. I can live a normal life 99.99% of the time. Even when I do come across a mushroom, I think I'm getting better over time. Less anxious, less afraid. More normal I guess. I'm just glad that I don't have a fear of something more fundamental, something like driving.

1. I even refused to listen to the Dire Straits song "Portobello Belle"