Emetophobia

It’s almost a tickling sensation, but darker somehow. A lump of dread that lingers in your throat somewhere between where your tongue begins and ends. An odious, swirling, restless something that fills your head with alarm bells. Television static. Police sirens. It paints your vision red and white, spikes your veins with malaise and fear. Intense. Illogical. All-encompassing. Like tunnel vision for the soul.

Afraid of winter. Afraid of doorknobs. Afraid to drink. Afraid to fly.

You’re seasick on land. Carsick on foot. There isn’t a single food you aren’t allergic to. You’re afraid of hospitals. Roller coasters. Red wine. Seafood. “Side effects may include.” You’re healthy in the eyes of every medical professional. You’re a hypochondriac. A germaphobe. An over-thinker. Obsessive-compulsive. Irrational. Paranoid. You’re just plain silly. It isn’t your stomach that’s restless—it’s your head. Working yourself up is what inevitably brings you down. The panic makes you feel queasy; the queasiness makes you panic. It’s a circle. A cycle. A cyclone.

Anyone can run from spiders.

Anyone can run from clowns.

Anyone can run from heights.

Nobody can run from themselves.