Fear Inventory

Glossophobia: I’m very smart with my big words, like epiglottic vallecula and lingual frenulum, and I’m very forgetful with my small words, like please and thank you. And when is it appropriate to say bless you after someone sneezes and when should you remain silent? You can’t know someone’s name unless you ask, but my mother exhorts, like a needle jabs into a nerve, do not speak unless spoken to. Swallowing my words so many times in between slices of spit so people turn to stare at my agape mouth which, to their surprise, reveals a slit tongue. My mind is always melting, and even when it’s not, my mother is always stabbing the needle. Are mutilated mouths not comforting? The space between us is clotted with lines of speech, not mine of course, that have become twisted and muddled. But no one has told me their name yet.

Agoraphobia: When my tongue was intact and my arms could hold my weight, I loved seeing the world upside down. But as my voice deepened, a wall thickened around my house which my mother called “hormones''. I could only cross this wall with my mother’s hand and her back was saved from a great deal of pain as I was very careful with my foot placement on sidewalks.

Elevators are only for people who want to die and those with knobby knees. I’m both but take the stairs and say it’s for the cardio. Grocery stores are only for people who want to die and those with fading funds. I’m both but get online delivery and say it’s supporting local businesses.

Parks are only for people who want to die and those with a Vitamin D deficiency. I’m both but drown in bed and say it’s melanoma-free. Being a child means playing with gravity and fear sinking into the hungry sky. Becoming an adult means nailing your feet into the earth and fear sinking into the hungry sky.

Obesophobia: I wish I could be like the hungry sky, consuming all it sees without hesitation or trepidation. I wish I could be like the hungry sky, looking down at its meals instead of up. I wish I could swallow alphabet soup the way I digest my mother’s words telling me no one wants to love a girl whose gut dawdles and whose arms swell. Remind me again, is food a luxury or a weapon? Instead of eating, I read and instead of reading, I think about food, and instead of thinking about food, I slash and stab my brain until it feels nice and punished. Instead, I eat out Death in hopes she will love me one day. Let me remind you, hot bile is a luxury and a weapon that one can only hope to be born with because it cannot be taught, no matter how hard you try. Instead, I sit here as an opponent of the mirror in an intense staring contest as neither one of us can bear to look down. She asks if I can stomach this. I tell her no, I’ve never liked my stomach very much.

Gerascophobia: My mirror hands me an eclair that prompts me to eat it through seductive white chocolate engraving and I watch the looking glass shrink and shrivel before me. I plead to drink the elixir that will make me lovely and small again, but she burdens me with the knowledge that this is not a children’s movie and more importantly, I am not a child. I tell her about the delightful film I watched the other day about a wrinkled mother and her dead child. The child was preserved in a beautiful glass casing where they stayed for the rest of eternity, untouched by time. The movie wasn’t explicit but as the child lay surrounded by decaying flowers and people, I could tell she was happy. When I was the same age as the dead child in the film, I asked my mother if she ever gets jealous of my pristine skin and stainless eyes. She told me no and that there comes a time when you start playing with men instead of dolls.

Androphobia: Playing with men has never been as fun as playing with dolls, but they still play with me. My mother never warned me about that. Should I feel guilty about loving weak, old men and their soft arms and scrambled minds? I wonder if female praying mantises ever feel guilty about biting their frail lovers' heads off. I have a shy jaw and soft arms and a scrambled mind so instead, I, like the polite girl I was raised to be, let them have the first bite. I wonder if men ever feel guilty after treating women the same way I look at their grandfathers.

The only thing stronger than a man is a man looking at you and the only thing stronger than a man looking at you is the idea of a man looking at you. Ever felt a chill crawl down your spine in a warm room? Ever seen a blurred figure quickly dart behind your reflection, even for a moment? We all have this Man. Mine lingers in shadows and scrutiny, creepily trailing behind me and casting dusk over my melting mind. My Man tells me the basics: arch your back, grow out your hair, cry tears that are timid and fragile, but never loud and ugly. I fear that I don’t fear my Man at all, I fear I love Him and His cold words like ice which melt in His palm that I slurp like a salivating dog. Sometimes, for a second, I try to look into other men’s eyes and see something other than a mere shadow draining an innocent woman. I fail every time. My mother would be so proud.

Fear of Losing My Mother: Like men follow me through shadows, my mother follows me through flashes. Why doesn’t this have a name? Warm flashes of light that remind me to eat my veggies or take a deep breath or give her a call. The longer my legs grew, the longer these flashes blazed in my gaze. Why doesn’t this have a name? Flame may be man’s greatest feat, but fire frosts over in the glow of my mother’s flash of light. What if this list grows like my legs and my gaze dims like a motherless world? Why doesn’t this have a name? What if she goes and takes the flashes with her? Leaving me behind. Leaving me a blind, feeble-minded doll haunted by clotted air and thick walls and dawdling guts and withering mirrors and murky shadows and nameless fears.

Emma Newman-Holden is a 19-year-old Film major attending Temple University. She currently lives in the Philly area and has developed an interest in creative writing, with this being her first real published piece.