My Morbid Fear

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“You’re phobic!” my sister intolerantly uttered. "No I'm not", I firmly replied. “This is just ridiculous. How can you be so afraid of elevators?" she added.

Shortly after receiving the bad news that my aunt has suffered a mild stroke, I and my family rushed to the hospital to see her. On the way, my mother was murmuring some incomprehensible prayers. My father, as usual, was silently pondering. My sister, on the phone with my cousin, was getting the latest on my aunt’s health condition. On the other hand, and as selfish and silly as this might sound; the dark, upsetting and horrifying picture of the elevator was the only thing to conjure up in my mind.

After reaching the hospital’s entrance, I could see my father’s eyes hurriedly scanning the place in search for that dark, nerve-racking box aka the elevator. Unluckily to me, he found one and immediately rushed to take. My family, as expected, went inside one after another. However, I pondered for a while before realizing that my feet felt almost glued to the ground.

Dad: Yallah ya benty! (Let’s go, dear!)
Me: It’s ok. I prefer to take the stairs. You know, they say it’s healthier and ….
Sister: Hey, don’t you start lecturing now. Are you coming or not? Don’t stand there like a total idiot.
Mother still whispering the surprisingly now-more-comprehensible prayers.

It took me several seconds of thinking, deciding and finally yielding to their imperious demands. Reluctantly walking toward the dark box, I helplessly stood watching the elevator noticeably slowly shutting its door, as if giving me a final chance to escape. I tried to gather my strength and kept telling myself “Don’t worry. It’s just gonna take a few seconds. You’ll see. Just think of something positive”. “Hmmm, something positive, you say?” I inwardly mocked myself.

I found a space at the end of the elevator, stood nervously staring at the door and impatiently waited for my moment of freedom. Wiping the sweat on my forehead, unsuccessfully trying to hide my breathlessness as well as shaking hands, trying to avoid the angry look on my sister’s face, I found myself completely detached from reality. I desperately struggled to shun the morbid idea of getting stuck, to cast off the thought of crashing, and ultimately suffocating to death.

Finally, the door slightly opens and I hurriedly skip everyone to joyously embrace my salvation.

My irrational fear of elevators has always been a dreadful, as well as shameful, secret of my life. Although, I never personally witnessed a bad experience with elevators, somehow they just give me the shivers. I intentionally avoid elevators at all costs and deliberately ignore listening to others’ explaining their horrific incidents with elevators in unpleasant details. When I first saw You’ve Got Mail, I became anxious and almost panicked while watching the scene in which Tom Hanks, his girlfriend and a couple of other people get stuck in an elevator. I was shocked at the calmness and inappropriate peacefulness in which they dealt with the terrifying situation. Or so I simply thought.

The fears of entrapment, of total isolation, of losing power in case of crashing, of seeking help but never finding any, of having to endure the blinding darkness seem to oppress me. I never spoke openly about it before, but the fear of elevators increasingly grew inside me, dictated my life and controlled my actions. Regardless of the several times in which I seriously tried to pull myself together and put an end to this absurdity, I found myself easily giving in to my inner fears and eventually losing the battle.

I think my sister was right after all; I am phobic.