Irrational fears and personal discomfort

Hello. My name is Claire, and I am an arachnophobe. I have lived with this condition all my life but it has never interefered with or hampered my day-to-day actions.

Until now.

You see, there's a huge spider in the bathroom and I really need to pee.

As Father Dougal once said: "Ted! Ted! I'm in tremendous pain, Ted!" (If you're not Irish or British then you won't have gotten that one - too bad!)

For as long as I can remember I've been afraid of spiders. And not just spiders, but all sorts of creepy crawlies and stuff. And whilst not necessarily afraid of winged bugs, I'm not a huge fan either and will do my utmost to avoid them.

My skin is crawling at the thought of the huge spider currently residing in the bathroom at work. A mere 20 feet away, I might add. This spider is so big that he could probably scuttle across here to my office in two seconds flat.

That's one of the problems I have with spiders - the fact that they scuttle everywhere. One minute they're there, sitting in the bathtub, waving up at you, and the next minute they're gone. Where did they go? Who knows?

When I see spiders, I don't tend to scream (unless they're enormous or about to jump on my face). Rather, I tend to freeze to the spot. Which is pretty fucking stupid because instead of running away to my happy place with rainbows and flowers and puppies, I'm rooted to the spot staring at the big hairy spider, unable to breathe, whilst my mind screams like a lunatic.
For people who don't have this fear of spiders, it's really difficult to comprehend how horrible it is. I know it's irrational, I know it's abnormal and I know it's probably more scared of me than I am of it. But, all the same, I'm going to have to wait until I go home to pee, 'cause I ain't going into that bathroom.

From Wikipedia (with my comments in brackets) -

Arachnophobia is a specific phobia, an abnormal fear of spiders. With an estimated half of all women, and a quarter of all men in the United States, it is among the most common of phobias. The reactions of arachnophobics often seem irrational to others (and sometimes to the sufferers themselves). People with arachnophobia tend to feel uneasy in any area they believe could harbor spiders or that has visible signs of their presence, such as webs. If they see a spider they may not enter the general vicinity until they have overcome the panic attack that is often associated with their phobia. They may feel humiliated if such episodes happen in the presence of peers or family members.

(Very true. I hate going into places that have cobwebs hanging about, and it is embarrassing asking people would they mind removing the huge spider so I can go into the room, hence my current state of misery. What's worse is that I can't even be in the room when the spider is being removed, and the remover has to show me his/her empty hands afterwards so I can be sure they got rid of it. I know, I know, I have trust issues.)

The fear of spiders can be treated by any of the general techniques suggested for specific phobias.

(See, I have a problem with this. I don't want to be cured of my fear because whenever you see people who'd been hypnotized into thinking they're no longer afraid of spiders, you always see them picking up tarantulas or something afterwards, and I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!!!!!)

Arachnophobia is, in many cases, the result of a traumatizing encounter with spiders in one's early childhood, though the experience may not be remembered.

(I'm not aware of any trauma - as far as I know I've just always hated the little buggers.)

An evolutionary reason for the phobias, such as arachnophobia, claustrophobia, fear of snakes or mice, etc. remains unresolved. One view, especially held in evolutionary psychology, is that sufferers might gain some survival edge, by avoiding the dangers. Spiders, for instance, being relatively small, don't fit the usual criteria for a threat in the animal kingdom where size is a key factor, but most species are venomous, and some are lethal. Arachnophobes will spare no effort to make sure that their whereabouts are spider-free, hence reducing sharply the risk of being bitten.

(See? We're SMARTER than you spider-loving freaks! You'll all die Steve Irwin-type deaths, with posionous red-backs hanging from your little fingers, whilst us arachnophobes laugh from our hiding places in the next room!)

The alternative view is that the dangers, such as from spiders, are overrated and not sufficient to influence evolution. Instead, inheriting phobias would have restrictive and debilitating effects upon survival, rather than being an aid. For example, there are no deadly spiders native to central and northern Europe that could exert an evolutionary pressure, yet that is where the strongest fear for spiders began, suggesting cultural learning. In contrast, many non-European cultures generally do not fear spiders, and for some communities such as in Papua New Guinea and South America, spiders are included in traditional foods.

(Yeah, well.... shut up. Spiders = bad, ok?)

In the meantime, I remain sitting here in my office, scared rigid, checking the door every five minutes to make sure the little bastard hasn't followed me in here (can spiders smell fear?), and desperately, desperately needing to pee.

I wouldn't change a thing

Last night I was watching Stephen Fry's two-part documentary entitled "The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive", which explores the reality of living with bipolar disorder. It was a fascinating programme in which Stephen, a long-time sufferer of the disorder, met celebrities and members of the public and invited them to speak very frankly about their disorder and about the impact it has had on their lives.

One part of the programme struck me as being particularly poignant. During each interview, Stephen asked the person "Do you regret having this disorder? Do you wish you had been born without it?" And, with the exception of one lady who suffered very badly from it, the people all said "No. I don't regret it." Not even the guy who had a total nervous breakdown and started having hallucinations in which the Devil was trying to get him; not even he regretted having this disorder.

This got me thinking: aren't human beings amazing? Isn't it astounding what humans can put up with and what they can get through? I know that's a bit cheesy (I have visions of Bill Hicks saying: "I'm tired of this back-slapping "Isn't humanity neat?" bullshit. We're a virus with shoes, okay? That's all we are.") but it's true!

Anyway, even though I'm still relatively young (compared to some of you old farts) in my lifetime I've seen people struggle through some extraordinary stuff including deaths, huge upheavals in their personal lives, etc. And yet, when you ask most people, or at least the people I know, if they regret any of it, or, would they do things differently if they could go back in time, I think the overall answer would be "no".

Not to equate my trivial personal problems with bipolar disorder or depression (although my problems weren't trivial to me and so still count!), but I've had some shitty times in the past, and yet I don't regret a single one of them. I suppose the biggest upheaval I've had was my marriage and subsequent divorce. Without going into too much detail, the man turned out to be a bit of an asshole, and, after (unwittingly) letting him systematically destroy my self-confidence and turn me against my friends, my family, even my country, I then found out that he was cheating on me for a couple of months while I was back in Ireland waiting to get my visa to move to his damn country. So, I dumped him.

Over the next year I slid into what I realise now was a pretty dark depression. I was deeply ashamed that I had married this idiot and that I had allowed him to walk all over me. I was ashamed of the hurt that I had caused my family and friends. I was even, perversely, ashamed that I hadn't been able to make the marriage work. I had made my bed but I was unable to lie in it. I felt like a complete failure.

I moved back home and got a job and, unfortunately, started drinking heavily in an attempt to regain some of the confidence that he had knocked out of me. It took a long time for me to get my divorce because for some fucked up reason, he didn't want to give me one. I had to resort to threatening to take half his inheritance (his dad was quite wealthy and, had I followed through on my threat I wouldn't have to work for the rest of my life - but I'm no gold-digger, so a threat was all it was) in order to get him to go to his bloody lawyer.

However, despite all the pain and hurt that it caused, I don't regret it. I don't regret meeting him, marrying him or divorcing him. The experience of that made me who I am today, and I think I'm alright! I might be a little bitter and cynical around the edges, but overall I think I've come up trumps.

I do regret the pain that I've caused my family and my close friends. Especially since they did their best to warn about this guy, but I chose to ignore them. I regret the fact that I had to tell my dad what happened and had to watch as his heart visibly broke in front of me. I regret my mum being so upset with me that she couldn't speak to me for a couple of weeks afterwards.
But, if I had to do it all again, I would. If I hadn't gone through that, I wouldn't be the person that I am now. I'd probably still be a doormat, letting people walk all over me. There's no way I would have had the confidence to go back to university and do a PhD.

So I can understand to some degree when these people with bipolar disorder say that they don't regret having it. After all, it's a fundamental part of who they are.

Buenos días!

Tomorrow I'm jetting off to sunny Spain for my holidays. This time tomorrow, I'll be lying under the hot Spanish sun, drink in one hand, book in the other, maybe some music playing in the background. If it gets too hot, I might take a dip in the villa's private pool, or I might walk down to the beach and go for a swim there. I'll have to see how I feel at the time.

Now, as you know or have probably guessed, I'm not a girlie-girl, and I don't get up at 6am to spend three hours blow-drying my hair into submission every morning. I'm pretty much a wash'n'go kind of person. But I do like to take some pride in my personal appearance, and thus I've had to spend almost a week getting ready for this damn holiday! Let me explain...

Monday - had to wax my bits. I will be spending most of my time in a bikini and, really, nobody wants to go on holiday with this:

So, the bits had to be waxed (which was, incidentally, excruciatingly painful, despite consuming a large glass of Pinot Grigio beforehand) and trimmed and moisturised and so on.

Tuesday - had to exfoliate and moisturise all over in preparation for Wednesday.

Wednesday - the first application of fake tan. Now, because I'm Irish, I'm ridiculously pale. To the point where strangers in cafés and on the street often poke me in the eye to see if I am actually still alive. If I went to the beach sans fake tan, airplanes would crash into each other because the pilots would be blinded by the glare from the sun on my bare, Irish skin. Because I'm such a humanitarian, and to avoid worldwide catastrophe, I apply fake tan.

For years, fake tan has been crap. It's been orange and streaky and smelly and horrible. But, the scientists who couldn't get jobs in real labs curing cancer and whatnot, and who, instead, have to work for the cosmetics overlords developing fake tan and the like, have finally gotten it right. There is no reason in this big and beautiful world why fake tan can't look natural. There is no reason in the world that anybody should be this orange:

Now, I admit that I've gotten it wrong on a couple of occasions before. My tan has gone streaky or hasn't turned out quite like I imagined it would (I was hoping for bronze goddess but instead got jaundice sufferer). The one time I had my tan done professionally, the girl fucked it up royally, and I just looked dirty, as Mozz can attest to. And not in a good way. Incidentally, this was at the same place where I had my bits waxed three days previously, and they royally fucked that up too, making it very painful for me to get it done from now on. I don't go there anymore :-/

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes. This time, I've done the waxing and the tanning myself and I have to say they both look pretty good. So...

Thursday - second application of fake tan. Because I'm so damn pale, one application makes me look somewhat human, but it takes two or three applications to make me look like I have a tan.

Friday - check all the hairy bits to make sure they're still hair free and apply final application of tan. I'll also deep condition my hair tonight to protect it from the sun, salt and chlorine during the week.

A consideration that all blondes must make is whether or not to get your hair done before you go away. In my case, it's usually not necessary. My hair is light enough naturally that a bit of sun tends to bleach it enough to avoid a trip to the hairdressers for a few months afterwards. But, if you do decide to get the colour topped up, then you need to get it done about a week before your holiday. Otherwise, you run the risk of the chlorine in the swimming pool reacting with the colour in your hair and turning it green. And remember girls, a dodgy tan plus a dodgy 'do plus copious amounts of chlorine equals...

And that's just not attractive.

However, all these things have now been done and I am holiday ready! My suitcase checklist has been completed:

- bikini (x2)
- books (x6)
- camera
- suncream

Here's hoping I can get through the rest of the day without having to actually do any work, but still looking busy enough so that the boss will feel guilty and let me go home at 3pm!

Hasta la vista, amigos!

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me (With a bloody kitchen knife)

I love horror.

Regardless of the medium, horror never ceases to fascinate me. Like gawking at the rotting corpse of some unlucky animal, lying by the side of a dusty road with its guts squished across the asphalt, I can't help but be drawn to horror. My morbid curiosity gets the better of me, and I stare, transfixed, at the screen, the page or the canvas.

I'm addicted to the sense of my flesh crawling, as I imagine unspeakable events unfolding before me. My spine turns to ice. My scalp tingles. My heart quickens. My mind starts shrieking...

You know that quote: "Ever wake up screaming only to realise you weren't asleep"? I think that's one of the most evocative, horrific quotes imaginable. That quote verges on the edge of madness. That's the point when the human mind collapses into insanity. When you wake up screaming only to realise you were never asleep, that's when you know there's no going back.

And that, to me, is the epitome of good horror. Something so awful that madness would be a welcome release.

I much prefer psychological horror, rather than slasher- or blood'n'guts'n'gore-type horror. I prefer the stuff that makes you think. The stuff that really gets under your skin. The stuff that in broad daylight seems ludicrous but at night time, when you're lying in your bed listening to the wind and the rain outside, and your brain is working overtime.... that's the stuff I like.

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My love affair with the macabre started when I was quite young. I remember watching my first horror film. I can't remember what it was called, but it was about a man who falls into a coma and then dies. However, the doctors resuscitate him and bring him back to life. But, he's different. He goes home to his wife and family, but she notices that he's not the same. It's like something inside him, some fundamental human trait, was lost when he died, and was never recovered when he was resuscitated.

I remember watching that movie when I was about nine or ten years old. My parents and my brothers had all gone to bed, and I had stayed up watching some documentary on TV. I was flicking through the channels, and saw the opening credits of this movie. It looked interesting, so I started watching. Two hours later, I crawled into bed, scared shitless. And I was hooked.

I graduated onto reading Stephen King. I think the first Stephen King book I read was "It", quickly followed by "The Stand" and "Pet Sematary". I remember reading "The Dark Half" on a ferry to France when I was 16 and nearly vomiting at the idea of having an undeveloped twin in your brain. It's such a ridiculous idea, but King's mastery is in making the ridiculous absolutely sublime.

With King, my obsession with all things dreadful and horrific was sealed. I started actively seeking out more horrible, frightening and ghastly books, devouring them at an almost fanatical rate. I'm sure my parents were slightly worried with the level of my fanaticism. But, I wasn't dressing like a Goth or a zombie, so I suppose they weren't too concerned. I would make bi-weekly trips to the local library, scouring the shelves for some nightmarish book to read, quizzing the librarians about the collection, begging them to buy in more books.

Even on holiday, I wouldn't and couldn't escape. I remember going on a family holiday to Co. Kerry. We were staying in a beautiful house in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by breathtaking views of the mountains and the coast. But the highlight of my holiday was coming across a battered old copy of Poltergeist on a dusty bookshelf. I grabbed the book and retreated to my room where I stayed up all night reading it. I have always had an overactive imagination, and sitting in a huge bedroom in a strange house in the middle of the countryside, with the wind howling around us outside, my mind boggled at the horror of that story. Once scene in particular stands out in my memory - when one of the ghostbusters goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror and starts pulling chunks of flesh off his face. I still get goosebumps when I think of that.

Of course, I've since seen the movie Poltergeist and, whilst it's not as good as I had imagined, it's still pretty scary. In fact, I watched it again a couple of weeks ago and was amazed that it still has the same effect on me as it did the first time I saw it, many many years ago.

As far as movies go, anything with children or religion in it is pretty much guaranteed to give me the creeps. The Exorcist, which combines the two, is one of my favourite (can something that scares that much you be considered a favourite?) movies. Interestingly, The Exorcist was banned in Ireland for over twenty years. It was made in 1973, but was only released in Ireland in 1999. I remember going to see it in a cinema in Cork and, despite the fact that everyone else was laughing (nervously) at the outdated special effects, it still chilled me to the bone. That scene where the kid crawls backwards down the stairs...

*shudder*

The Omen is another favourite of mine. I went to see the remake that was released on the sixth of June this year and, even though it wasn't as good as the original (the acting was a bit wooden), the story still gives me the willies.

I think that classic horror films, such as The Exorcist and The Omen and Poltergeist tend to be more frightening than modern-day horrors in spite of the outdated special effects. When there was no such thing as computer generated animation, films relied more on the actual story. The plot was central to the film. The directors used music and lighting to build the tension and create an atmosphere.

Take, for example, two popular slasher movies: Psycho, which was released in 1960, and Scream, which was released in 1996. For all its special effects and gore, Scream still seems, to me at least, to be more of a comedy than a horror film. Psycho, on the other hand, still scares me, even though it was filmed in black and white with little or no special effects. Of course, Wes Craven whilst undoubtedly talented is nothing compared to the genius that is Alfred Hitchcock.
Some more modern horror films have really appealed to me. I went to see the American remake of The Ring, and that gave me nightmares for three weeks afterwards. No exaggeration. I think part of the reason that it scared me so much was that I watched it in the cinema with approximately 200 other people. There's something about 200 people screaming in unison that will put fear into even the most stoic heart. I saw the Japanese original soon afterwards, but it was more comical than horrific. Having said that, I've also seen Dark Water (the original Japanese version) by the same director, Hideo Nakata, and it's bloody scary! Again, it's got the kid connection.

I really enjoyed The Others. It's not so much a horror as a psychological thriller, but still a very interesting story (even if it is a little predictable) and very well made.

The Blair Witch Project had a profound effect on me too. I was living in Canada when it was released, and I remember this sort of underground hype that was slowly building up about this film. There were rumours that it was true etc., and online interviews with "local" townspeople and sheriffs, and even the families and friends of the "victims". Part of you was thinking "yeah right, it's all a big publicity stunt for the movie", but part of you was thinking "but what if...?" It was so well marketed that it was believable. Again, it was a very simple concept, with no special effects whatsoever and it worked. The last scene, of the guy standing in the corner of the room.... still chills my blood.

One film that I saw recently that I really didn't enjoy was The Hills Have Eyes. This is everything a horror film should not be. It was vile and disgusting, and really disturbing. I suppose that's also the mark of a good horror - preying on your darkest fears - but this was done in such an offensive way that it made me feel physically ill. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I had to watch three episodes of Father Ted afterwards, just so I could go to bed in peace. Come to think of it, Father Ted would probably be considered a horror to some people ;)

I also enjoy the macabre in paintings. I recently mentioned an exhibition that I went to in the Tate in London entitled "Gothic Nightmares: Fuseli, Blake and the Romantic Imagination". This exhibition was based around Henry Fuseli's painting "The Nightmare". "Ever since it was first exhibited to the public in 1782, this picture has been an icon of horror. Showing a woman supine in her boudoir, oppressed by a foul imp while a ferocious-looking horse glares on, the painting draws on folklore and popular culture, medicine, concepts of imagination, and classical art, to create a new kind of highly charged horror image." (source: London Town)

The exhibition also displayed some of Blake's more sinister engravings, and, as a fan of Blake's work, I was immensely excited and fascinated to be able to stand in front of the work of this macabre genius.

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I've noticed recently that horror seems to affect me more profoundly than it ever did before. In the past, I would watch a horror film or read a book and, whilst it would give me the shivers, I was usually able to shake it off quite quickly and carry on. Nowadays, however, it seems to stay with me for longer. I think about it more. I marvel at the depraved mind that came up with the idea behind it and wonder what it would be like if it were me in that situation. Maybe it's because I'm more aware of my own mortality? Maybe my imagination has gone into overdrive? Maybe it's because I've been reading too much Stephen King? Or maybe I'm just sick in the head.

All these things that I've learned

Here are some things that I have learned since the weekend. They're not necessarily rules to live by, but they certainly make the ride a little smoother ;)

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The worst thing you can say to a goth is that they have a nice tan.

Tattoos sneaking out of shirt collars or cuffs are incredibly sexy. They make me want to explore.
Whiskey does not cure colds, but it's still fun trying it out.

If I buy a return ticket for the tram on a Saturday night, I will inevitably lose track of time and end up getting a taxi home.

No matter how many times I pack, unpack and repack my suitcase for my holidays, I'm still convinced I've forgotten something.

There is immense pleasure in buying a book because it was cheap and would pass the time, rather than because you thought it was any good, and then finding yourself unable to put it down and finishing it in a day.

Nothing ever happens in Lost, and yet I keep tuning in week after week because they always end it on a cliffhanger. How can you have a cliffhanger when nothing has happened for the entire episode?

Horror films only really creep me out when they have children as central characters. There's something about a kid saying "Mommy?" in that sing-song voice that makes my blood run cold.

The sooner they bring in a smoking ban in England, the better.

Some of the best modern poetry I've ever read has been written on the walls of trams and hanging in airports. I read one in Inverness airport on Monday, called "Contraband". It's excellent. Can't remember the author though. Does anyone else know it?

Although it's been this way for most of my adult life, I'm still continually pissed off by the fact that during the week I struggle to get out of bed at 7am every morning to get ready for work, but come the weekend, I'm wide awake by 6:30 with no hope of getting back to sleep.

Rock Idol, or Supernova, or whatever its called, is still ridiculously bad, but I've got a major crush on the Australian boy since he took his top off the other night. I've come to the conclusion that I am often very shallow when it comes to looks. The older I get, the shallower I get.

Drinking three very strong coffees in quick succession is fine as long as its done before 11am. Anytime after 11am, and I won't sleep properly for two days.

The smaller the plane the smoother the flight.

The standard inflight service (complimentary drinks, complimentary snacks, competent and friendly cabin crew, pilots that actually know how to land a plane, etc.) that you used to get for free on board most flights now costs approximately £400.

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