All Birds are Gross
not a phobia, but kind of adjacent
Is this a bad time to bring up my fear of infectious diseases? Too topical? Maybe. But, it’s true. To be fair, no one likes the prospect of an infectious disease running rampant throughout society. But some people have the innate ability to say, “fuck it.” I do not. I remember fretting about plagues as a child. It was neck-in-neck with appendicitis as my most prevalent medical-based fear. I guess this should’ve been a sign to take me to therapy, but my parents probably had other things to worry about in the early 2000s, like pondering the next twist on the hit TV show Lost, or the sudden collapse of Wall Street. No matter, my vast ability to fret knew no bounds at ten years old, and diseases were a brightly lit landing strip upon which I could park my little plane of worry.
What is it about infectious diseases, you may wonder? To be clear, it is not a phobia. I'm well aware that phobia denotes a true mental health issue, and is overused as a colloquialism. Nonetheless, on a clinical level, it falls under a category that is more severe than many of my worries. Unlike broken glass, of which I can ponder the deeper meaning, I avoid sitting on pandemics. It makes me itchy. Probably because I can feel the germs congregating on my body like it’s Mass on Easter Sunday. Milling about, giving one another words of encouragement, and bringing reluctant family members along for the occasion. I can feel the symptoms running through my body—starting in my head and traveling down to one of my essential organs.
One time, in Mexico as a child, I developed a hand rash after petting a stray dog. I stayed up all night barely able to catch my breath. I knew the rash had spread to my blood stream and was infecting my cardiovascular system with every inhalation. Ah, the mind of an anxious child. When I first heard of the Swine Flu, I determined I ought to stay clear of pork products. The Bird Flu was even worse. I felt their bacteria-laden wings infecting the air. They pooped on everything—benches, picnic tables, car windows. I couldn’t touch any number of outdoor items without darting for the hand sanitizer. I still have a healthy fear of birds. Clearly, as a child, I had a poor handle on how diseases spread. It was entirely psychological, but I was convinced it was physical.
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I still remember lying in bed, in the room where I had slept most of my life. My parents had recently let me repaint for the first time. With this newfound autonomy, I chose a highly sophisticated color palate—eggplant and mud brown. The top and bottom half of the walls were different colors, as was the trend for a fleeting period of time. It was dark and hard to match with any of my other belongings, like the bright pink blanket emblazoned with princess that I never went a night without. But I felt like an adult. It was here, close to sleep, that I would considering all the diseases to which I might fall prey. I was all too cognizant of the rate at which diseases could spread. Certainly, I was next to get some sinister illness—I could already feel the tickling in the back of my throat, a fever coming on, or restricted breathing giving me a dizzy spell. I would check myself for symptoms like a baby WebMD. Sometimes, I crept down the hall and into the linen closet to use the thermometer. Always looking over my shoulder and replacing it just so, as if I were partaking in some illicit criminal act.
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I now sleep in my own apartment in an actual adult room, with an actual adult color scheme, whatever that meant in the first place. Buried under the gray comforter on my neatly made bed is a softly worn, faded pink blanket. And buried in the back of my mind is the same self-soothing pattern I sometimes fall asleep to. No fever. No chills. No body aches or sore throat. No shortness of breath. Good night.