I joined a support group that promised to "cure" me of my phobia. The first participant is deathly afraid of clocks. [1]

For as long as I can remember, I?ve lived in fear. Actually, fear is not the right word to express what I feel. Fear is natural ? good, even. Fear keeps us safe, deters us from making the stupid decisions we would no doubt make without it. Fear evolved us, evolves with us, keeps us alive. I?m afraid of spiders, snakes, falling to my death from a lofty bridge - things and situations that pose an actual, real threat.
My phobia is entirely irrational, yet it leaves me riddled me with abject terror. So much so that the simple thought of it makes my mouth dry and my hands clammy, makes my heart start to beat a bit faster. So much so that the sight of it launches me into an instant anxiety attack, leaves me choking for air, turns my stomach until I?ve emptied it completely. So much so that when I?m forced to confront it, I? well, I?ll get to that later.
Because it?s not my turn to share.
For years, I?ve been ruled by my phobia. Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I am triggered by something so seemingly innocuous that I can never know when it?s coming. I am seized by my phobia, I am terrorized by my phobia, I am controlled by my phobia. Above all, I?m exhausted by my phobia, so much so that I signed up for an intensive workshop that promised to provide the tools to ?cure? my phobia, led by someone who actually overcame their own. I figured that, if I?ve tried drugs, and I?ve tried therapy, I might as well try this.
That?s how I ended up in what appeared to be a Sunday school classroom in a vacant church, the room completely cleared except for a circle of eight folding chairs on the scuffed white linoleum floor. A message on the whiteboard was my only indication that I had indeed landed in the right place.
Welcome to my workshop! I will be in shortly, but it is important to the process that you do not know who I am right away. I firmly believe in the healing power of discussing the origins of your phobia and how it has changed your life. We will all share our stories as peers first before I show you how I took control over my own life again. Please take a seat and find the number taped underneath. We will share in that order.
I picked a random seat and sat down, a little disheartened. It?s hard for me to pinpoint a concrete beginning to my phobia ? it?s just always been there. It has, however, altered the course of my life ? has made me done things I regret each miserable day of my life ? so I opted to stay anyway. I reached underneath my chair to locate the slip of paper, ripping it from the bottom before reading the number ? 7.
The other participants filtered in soon afterward.
First there was Tegen, a remarkably gaunt young woman with hollow, sunken cheeks. Immediately after taking a seat, she pulled a travel ashtray from her purse and started to smoke. She never stopped.
Then came Alec, a conventionally handsome man, almost plain, probably in his forties. He nodded to the two of us before sitting three seats to my right, pushing his thick ****** glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Valo, a man so tall he could eclipse the sun, bald headed and face clean-shaven ? very clean cut overall. He anxiously asked Tegen to read his number for him as he descended into the flimsy chair beside her.
Edie, an elderly woman ? probably almost ninety ? chose the spot next to me. With her white, permed hair and string of large pearls around her neck, she looked so much like my own grandmother that I was instantly comforted by her presence.
Thomasine, likely the youngest of us all, giggled as she perched next to Alec. Her hair was bleached blonde, but her dark roots had grown out at least four inches, and she sported a full face of unevenly applied makeup.
Don, a middle-aged man with a thin crop of greying red hair walked in on squeaking white tennis shoes. His beer gut became more pronounced as soon as he sat down, directly to my left. ?Woah,? he remarked, immediately. ?What happened to your hand??
I used my one hand to pull the sleeve of my dark green flannel over the stump of my left wrist.
Finally, Cecily entered the room, an incredibly stunning woman with short black hair, radiant dark skin, and a decorated eyepatch over her right eye. She strode towards the circle slightly off kilter, placing the flat of her hand down on the seat of the final chair before sitting directly across from me. She tore her paper from the underside of her seat.
?Well,? she said, turning her unfolded slip around to reveal her number ? 1. ?Looks like I?m supposed to go first. I guess I?ll just go ahead and start, then???
The group provided no response. If the facilitator was even among us, they made no indication to show it.
?My name is Cecily, and, uhm, I have chronometrophobia,? she began, her voice clear and confident. When she registered the blank expressions on mine and the rest of her audience?s faces, she added quickly, ?fear of clocks.?
Don, the man to my immediate left, laughed through his nose. ?Clocks??
Cecily aimed a firm glare in his direction. ?Yeah, *******. Clocks. Got anything else to say?? she countered.
He shook his head with a lazy shrug as Edie urged gently, ?go on, dear.?
?Thanks, ma?am,? she replied warmly, her tone in stark contrast to its quality moments before.
Edie offered a sweet smile in return.
?It all started with the floaters,? she resumed, her leather jacket crinkling as she relaxed in her chair. ?Tiny black specks in my vision, little strings swimming around everywhere I looked. At first, they were barely noticeable? I could only see them when I was staring at a blank wall, but they rapidly became more obstructive. I made a mental note to call up my doctor, but I had bills to pay, so I put it off. Thought maybe I?d ****ed up my eye with my contact lens or something. The floaters were only in my right eye.?
She pointed to her right eye ? rather, the patch she wore to conceal it. The covering was studded in black and white gems, with several small loops of dainty chain dangling off of it. It was strangely beautiful.
?I was mostly able to ignore it, just kept going about my business as normal,? she sighed, leaning back in her chair and kicking her legs out in front of her. ?But a couple weeks after the floaters first appeared, it got much worse. I was out having lunch with my father, just joking around like we always did, when suddenly? I don?t even know how to explain it. It was like a dark curtain fell over the right side of the world. Almost half of the vision in my right eye was just? gone. Blacked out. Erased.?
The girl with inconsistent makeup ? Thomasine ? gasped. ?What was wrong??
?My dad rushed me to the doctor, who told me I?d had something called a retinal detachment,? she answered, turning to her left to address her directly. ?Essentially, a portion of my retina, which lines the back of the inner eye, had peeled off like old wallpaper. Without it, my brain couldn?t make sense of what I was seeing, so it just blacked it out, as if it didn?t exist at all. I?d need medical intervention immediately, or I?d almost certainly face permanent blindness.?
Cecily tousled the short black curls atop her head with one hand as she continued, ?I came in for treatment the next day. They numbed me up, then inserted a little metal contraption to pry my eye open as they injected a little bubble of gas inside it. Whereas the procedure itself was pretty quick and simple ? albeit terrifying ? the real problem was the recovery. To ensure the bubble would stay in the right position to push my retina back in place, I?d have to lie face down, head tilted ever so slightly, for at least a week.?
?The whole time?? I interjected incredulously.
?Yeeep,? she confirmed, nodding slowly, popping her lips at the end of the word. ?I could get up briefly to eat or use the bathroom, but that was essentially it.?
Tegen ashed her cigarette into her plastic ashtray before taking another long drag. ?Christ,? she breathed, a plume of smoke accompanying the syllable. Her oversized sweater fell off one shoulder, revealing every detail of her collarbone, the deep hollow behind it.
?My father was a lifesaver, insisting that I move back home for the duration of my recovery. We were very, very close, especially after my mother left,? Cecily revealed, a hint of sadness in her voice. ?The first day was awful, my body got all stiff and ? my god ? the boredom, you honestly could not imagine. My father kept me company as best as he could, but still? you have no idea. The second day was unbearable. But the third day? the third day was literal hell.?
Several members of the group, myself included, leaned forward, our curiosity almost tangible.
Rubbing the palms of her hands along her fitted jeans several times, she appeared slightly nervous for the first time since her arrival. ?Well, my father got me set up for bed on the second night. I fell asleep, woke up the next morning ? at least, I think it was morning. I had these blackout curtains in my childhood room, the one I was staying in, so I couldn?t be sure. My phone was on the charger across the room. I laid there for a long while, either waiting to fall back asleep or for my father to come in. But he didn?t come, and I sure as **** couldn?t sleep because of? because of the ticking.?
A sudden silence fell over the room as Cecily glanced down at her lap, picking at a fingernail. Nobody pressed her to continue. I knew ? we all knew ? what she was fighting? the anxiety, the nausea, the absolute, oppressive terror that surfaces at even just the thought of what you fear most.
?The, uh, the? the clock in my room, one of those old, loud, clocks,? she stammered, gritting her teeth. ?Unable to see anything in the darkness, and with the rest of the house completely quiet, the incessant ticking was? it was all I could focus on. Just over and over, tick, tock, tick, tock,? she muttered anxiously, illustrating the statement by clicking the heel of her boot loudly on the floor several times before stopping abruptly, her eyes widening.
She took a moment to collect herself with a deep, shaking breath. ?Over the hours, it just got louder and louder. I called out for my dad, but there was no response. I figured it must be the middle of the night, so I desperately tried to will myself back to sleep? but the ticking? the damn ticking was taunting me. I laid there for what felt like hours, days, years, even, paralyzed by the sound. It feels so irrational, so stupid to admit it, but I just couldn?t move because of a clock. Even when I had to go to the bathroom, I couldn?t get up to do it. Something about the ticking just terrified me in a way I?d never experienced, froze me in place.
?At a certain point I noticed that the sound started to take on a different character, well? it was more like another layer in the sound emerged. The, uhm, the tick, tock, tick, tock pattern started to sound a little bit more like? clop, clop, clop, clop. And it was coming from above me, beating in perfect synchrony with the ticking from the clock in my room, like somebody was stomping around in the room above me. But it didn?t sound like human footsteps? the sound was far too harsh, too clean. Not dull, soft like a human?s would be.?
Shivering audibly, she recalled, ?God, I can just remember lying there, so scared and so confused, and thinking to myself that? it almost sounded like hooves. And then, the sound started to move again, still overhead but a little further away, a little quieter. I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. The feeling didn?t last long, though, because moments later the sound returned, louder than ever, as the staccato of tick, tock, clop, clop echoed throughout the house, deafening. I realized then that it ? whatever was causing the noise ? was coming down the stairs.?
?Goodness, no,? Edie wheezed, placing one delicate hand over the bottom half of her face.
?I just laid there in that bed that I?d soiled, body soaked in a cold sweat, petrified, helpless, unable to see at all, unable to hear anything other than that clop, clop, clop, clop down the stairs, each step closer to me punctuated by that terrible sound,? she ranted, her hands balled into tight fists, striking the tops of her thighs in perfect time.
?It clomped across the first floor of the house, relentless in its pursuit, until it finally reached my room. The door opened a crack, allowing a little light to spill in, but I remained still in my bed, face down, as the sound continued, louder, closer with each step until I swear it was coming from inside me, ear-splitting, thundering, vibrating inside my ears, my mind. I knew the monster was beside me then, because I could feel its breath on my shoulder? so hot it was almost steaming.?
All seven of us hung on her every word, the room completely silent save for the flick of Tegen?s lighter as she lit up another cigarette.
Cecily squeezed her visible eye shut tightly as if trying to oust the mental image of the creature. ?I slowly turned my head, and I? in the sliver of light emanating from the door, I saw the bottom half of the creature, standing upright on two thick legs coated in dense, black hair. It repeatedly bent one of its legs to slam a cloven hoof onto the floor, perfectly in tempo with the clock. Tick, tock. Clop, clop.
?At that moment, I didn?t care if I lived or died, just as long as death brought the sound to an end. I rolled out of bed away from the creature and just ran like hell on numb, weak legs, the beast growling as it started after me, I ? I could hear the clop, clop, clop, clop following me in the darkness. Somehow, I managed to outrun it, and I burst out the door into the blinding light of day, searing my already damaged retina.
?And then, the sound stopped? just like that,? she revealed with a snap of her fingers. ?Still terrified, I darted up to my father?s room, and? I, uhm, I found him there, dead on the floor.?
Several of us gasped in response. Thomasine reached over to place a comforting hand atop Cecily?s.
?He, uhm? he had a stroke and fell, couldn?t call for help.? Tears suddenly spilled from her eye as her bottom lip quivered. The worst part is that it was likely a slow death. He could have laid there for hours,? she speculated, her tone wavering as she struggled to continue. She sniffed loudly. ?I developed my phobia of clocks after that. I lost my sight completely in my right eye because I was too afraid to go to the doctor, worried I might see a clock.?
She flipped up her eyepatch to reveal a heavily clouded, pale eye in stark contrast to her left one, warm brown in color. ?My retina detached completely, then I developed a cataract from the surgery. I don?t mind it myself, but I cover it because I got tired of people staring once I did finally work up the courage to leave the house. I?d rather them stare at something I have control over,? she explained as she set the eyepatch back in its original place.
?To this day, I can?t stand to look at a clock, but even more so, I can?t stand to hear one. The ticking of a clock sounds just as loud to me as it did that day in the darkness, three years ago. With the sound comes the memory of that horrible creature, and I feel it coming after me every time I hear it,? she mused, resting her hands in her lap as she came to the finish of her story. ?And even worse than that, the sound of a clock ticking carries the devastating reminder of each second that passed as my father lay dying on the floor, each second that I could have helped him, each second that I could have saved his life. I think that?s what scares me most of all.?
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