Return to story

FEAR THIS FRIDAY THE 13TH

October 13, 2006 12:50 am

Dr. Donald Dossey, a behavioral scientist based in Asheville, N.C., coined the term for those who fear bad luck on Friday the 13th.

He's written a book about superstitions. About 17 million to 21 million Americans are afraid of Friday the 13th, according to drdossey.com. Some are so worried that they don't even leave home to go to work.

What else are people afraid of? In honor of this traditionally unsettling day, four staff members have gone to their dark sides to share their own fears. See their stories on Page D4.

By DICK HAMMERSTROM

In late March 2003, I calmly drove 1.7 miles across the towering bridge on U.S. 301 over the Potomac River and, later, traveled 4.3 carefree miles across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.

It was a pleasant early spring day and I was on my way to a journalism convention in Ocean City, Md.

Three days later, I approached the Bay Bridge again, this time in a swirling snowstorm that, to me at least, turned the span into a slippery metal deathtrap.

By the time I reached the other side, I was soaked with sweat, my knuckles were white and my heart was racing.

It was my first step into the world of gephyrophobia.

A medical dictionary defines it this way: "An abnormal and persistent fear of crossing bridges. Sufferers of this phobia experience undue anxiety even though they realize their fear is irrational."

That sums it up for me.

This newfound phobia took me by surprise. In decades of driving, I'd been over numerous bridges, long and short, narrow and wide, without any sense of alarm.

But since that day, I find myself checking routes on my travels to see what kind of bridges I might encounter. I've altered routes as a result. Once, I tried to back down a monster exit ramp that seemed to head into the clouds south of Richmond.

I've gotten considerable advice, some unsolicited, some sought.

Take Valium; it'll calm your fear. Don't take it; it will relax you too much.

I've tried my own solutions. For example, I thought the pounding sounds of Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" would embolden me and ease the fear. Maybe a little, but not that much. Now I listen to Enya, New Age music that's bolstering but also soothing.

There have been other suggestions, some practical. Watch the center line and don't look left or right. I do that, and it helps some. Pretend it's just the Chatham Bridge over the Rappahannock. Sorry, but anyone who has approached the menacing Harry W. Nice Memorial Bridge over the Potomac on U.S. 301 can't play make-believe. That two-lane bridge is narrow, it goes up high, and the side rails are low and not very comforting.

Some people acknowledge my fear in different ways.

Last Christmas, my loving siblings presented me with a package of gifts "from Santa's Helpers Ho Ho Ho." It included two hardcover books with photos of famous (and terrifying) bridges of the world, a wall-sized calendar of "Bridges 2006" and information on how to get help for gephyrophobia.

I do find it comforting to hear other bridge horror stories, from the reporter who said she closed her eyes while her boyfriend drove over the U.S. 301 bridge to the former intern who said she once brought traffic to a near-standstill while going over a bridge into Manhattan.

In the meantime, I silently curse unsympathetic bridge engineers who don't consider such phobias.

I've grown to appreciate how cozy and comfortable those under-the-water tunnels make me feel.

AVIATOPHOBIA : FLYING IN THE FACE OF FEAR

By KATHERINE SHAPLEIGH

Sometimes, fear has the driver's seat. It drove my sister, Kristin, for 18 years--drove her to travel in cars and occasionally by boat, but never, ever by plane.

This year, she got tired of being limited by fear. We bought plane tickets to Austin, Texas.

She filled a prescription that would help calm her nerves.

She tracked our Southwest Airlines flight on the Internet for days.

"It's on time," she'd call to say.

"It just left Baltimore."

"It's landed in Austin."

She updated her will, just in case, and had her husband do the same.

The night before our early morning departure, she crawled into bed, sobbing, as rain pelted her windows and fog rolled in. She hadn't packed.

Somehow, she managed to get a few hours of sleep and throw some clothes into a bag. We left for Baltimore at 4:45 a.m., in clear, cool darkness.

She was solemn and moody at the airport, then went off to watch plane after plane roll down the runways and lift skyward.

She popped a Valium before we boarded, then swallowed another as she settled into a middle seat. Her husband sat beside the window; I took the aisle on the other side of her. Oh, boy.

Our plane pulled into a line of jets awaiting takeoff.

Engines roared.

She tensed.

Her fingers clamped onto her MP3 player.

Then the engines powered down as the captain announced a 20 minute runway rush-hour delay.

She was in agony.

Finally, it was our turn.

Our plane picked up speed on the runway. She pulled her MP3 player to her mouth and bit down on it. She prayed, quietly and insistently, mouthing the words.

The nose of the plane pulled up, and we could feel the power of physics at work as the ground got smaller and smaller beneath us.

"It's OK, we're up," I told her. But she was not OK.

"I want to bite my tongue off, even with the medication," she said.

Her hands shook violently.

Her frantic eyes locked, unblinking, onto my face.

(She needed to focus on something familiar, she'd explain to me later.)

"Breathe," I told her. "Deep breaths. You can do this."

I worried about a meltdown. But she did breathe, taking short, therapeutic little breaths.

She relaxed a bit.

I made my way to the restroom near the cockpit later, and stopped to tell the witty flight attendant about Kristin's milestone. Could he give her a pair of wings on her way off the plane?

Why wait? he said.

He walked to her seat with wings and a coloring book. "You've done a very brave thing today," he said. She grinned.

She earned her wings, along with an unforgettable autumn weekend in Texas.

GLOSSOPHOBIA: SPEAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

By LAURA MOYER

The other night I went to the University of Mary Washington, Combs Hall. I popped into the bathroom, checked for nose goblins, tooth spinach and clothing stains, found none, and calmly entered Room 002 to speak to a journalism class taught by my colleague Edie Gross.

An hour later I emerged alive.

I can't say I've overcome my terror of speaking in front of a group, but I do think I'm keeping it at bay.

All it took was years and years of becoming physically ill before each speaking commitment, then doing it anyway. Also drugs. Drugs helped a lot.

Combs Hall is where I finally got a handle on my public-speaking phobia three years ago.

Before Edie started teaching this introductory newsgathering class, I gave it a go. I taught one semester, and I thought I might die of it.

I got the job in late spring and spent the summer preparing and dreading. I had a syllabus and all my assignments planned by mid-June. I plotted out activities and lectures, goals and quizzes. I was as ready as I could be. I wasn't ready at all.

About two weeks before the semester started, I realized I was not OK. I wasn't sleeping. I was barely eating. Just thinking about walking into that Combs Hall classroom to face 20 college students at 8 a.m. made me sweat and shake. One evening, I recall, I lay on my living-room couch, listened to my heart pound and tried to breathe.

The next day I called my primary-care doctor and begged for an emergency appointment. At the office I tearfully described my wretchedness and walked out with a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug called Xanax.

I'm not just being dramatic when I say Vitamin X saved me.

That night I slept eight hours. I woke up thinking, "It's scary, but I can do this."

On Monday morning, I went into that 8 o'clock class and taught it halfway credibly. Then I did it again and again, three times a week till it was done.

In honesty, I have to grade myself about a C-minus as a teacher that semester. I was too talky and too hung up on the small stuff. I spent so much time trying to untangle my students' knotted prose that I fumbled some of the broader concepts I'd hoped to impart.

The students, on the other hand, were great. They were smart and polite and earnest. They worked hard. They asked good questions. In my eyes they transformed from one big blob of sleepy, pajama-bottom-clad humanity into individuals, with names and opinions and a real desire to learn something.

Also, every one of them wanted and expected an A. Too bad.

I would never, ever, ever, ever agree to teach a class again, but as I look back on the one I did teach, I'm satisfied.

I don't delude myself that I'm really done with this phobia. I always carry one Xanax tablet with me for public-speaking emergencies.

But since my teaching semester, I've survived many a speaking experience without having to call on my chemical lifesaver.

ORNITHOPHOBIA: TURN AND TURN, AWAY FROM BIRDS

By ELIZABETH KRIETSCH

I was sitting in my basement, perfectly content with My Little Pony toys and my favorite Crayola markers and crayons.

Suddenly, I heard a chirp and the sound of flapping wings.

There was a flash of brown, frantic flying.

In seconds, I threw down my toys and sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

"There's a bird in the basement! There's a bird in the basement!" I screamed to my mom.

I was hysterical. To me--a 7-year-old with an intense fear of birds--being trapped in a basement with a bird was the worst situation imaginable.

I'm a college senior now, and I'm still terrified of birds.

Most people see birds as harmless; I see them as menacing. My fear is formally called ornithophobia, an abnormal, persistent and irrational fear of birds.

The phobia might have started when I was 2 or 3. I was playing in my neighbors' kitchen, and they released their pet bird. Apparently, the bird landed on my neck. I did not react well.

This would explain my chills--and my urge to put my hand in my hair at the base of my neck whenever I come close to a bird.

When I was in fourth grade, a wildlife preservation society brought hawks into my classroom. I teared up by the middle of the presentation, made a beeline for the restroom and did not return until I was sure the birds were gone.

When I walk on campus or in town, I detour if I encounter a bird that seems a little too chummy. I'd rather be late to class or work than have a run-in.

This past spring, I was cooking dinner with my roommates when some friends decided it would be funny to release a bird into the house.

I caught one glimpse of the grotesque creature and sprinted into the backyard to resume my salad preparations.

I realize my fear is irrational and that a small bird is not going to hurt me, but the phobia has not lessened over the years. I don't foresee ever being in a room with a bird without crying, shaking or having heart palpitations.