Myrmecophobia

Myrmecophobia, or fear of ants - it is the closest name I can find for my suffering. Indeed, my earliest remembered attack of the fear was caused by a film about ants. A dormant nest of killer ants was disturbed when a hotel was being built, and the people trapped inside had to sit in the middle of a room, breathing through rolled up newspapers while deadly ants crawled all over them. It still makes me shudder to remember the scene.

Since then my fear has grown to encompass massive swarms of any type of small animal – ants, bees, cockroaches, midges, and even a big enough flock of birds in the distance can make my skin crawl. I had made some attempts to overcome it, and failed horribly, reducing myself to a quivering, whimpering wreck watching re-runs of ‘The Swarm’, and similar squeam-fests.

So I had warned my boyfriend about it, and we thought we were safe with the comedy video we had rented. First, however, came the trailers. When the information for ‘The Mummy’ came on, I looked away from the screen, remembering previously shuddering at the hordes of beetles and cockroaches let loose on the screen. Stephen laughed, and then told me it was safe to look back. Scarabs flooded up a ramp. I cringed into Stephen’s shoulder, and scratched my head with both hands.
“I thought you were trying to beat this,” he giggled. “That’s the video we should get out! Can’t you even give the advert a go?”

I took a deep breath, and turned back to the tv. In the middle of the screen a man sat, praying and crying as locusts flew round his head, flowing round his face like sand in a storm. My hands flew back up to my head, but Stephen grasped them, and held them in my lap. My scalp itched, and my forehead burned, but I tried to persevere. I told myself they were merely images on the screen, and nothing was here in the room, but the more I tried to convince myself, the more it felt as if a million things crawled through my hair, and down my neck. Little feet like pins washed over my entire head, and tiny mouths chewed on my skin. My shoulders tightened, and my fists became so tense that I was crushing Stephen’s hands. He had to let go, and the real torment began just as the video moved on to a new advert.

I clawed at my scalp, and scratched down the side of my face. Instead of relief came agony. My jaw clenched and my stomach churned, and still I scratched and pulled at my skin and hair. Red welts began to appear on my face and shoulders, and I had pulled loose some hair. Stephen jumped to his feet, aghast, and then tried to grasp my arms. He was shouting my name, telling me to stop, that he was sorry, but I was writhing on the sofa, tearing at any flesh I could feel. It seemed to me that I was in that dreaded scene myself, coated in beasts that would smother me, nibbling slowly through my skin and digging miniscule claws into me. I couldn’t rip them off fast enough and cried out in anguish, until Stephen managed to get hold of my arms, and stop me from doing further damage.

In the end only a hot shower stopped the tingling sensations that drove me insane, and a hot drink after helped settle my nerves. I was covered in scratches and patches of raw skin, but they cleared after a week or so. I have since then managed to watch ‘The Mummy’, and whenever it came to uncomfortable scenes of tiny creatures and creepy crawlies I just reminded myself of the pain that came after my phobia attack. The knowledge that I would have torn off all my own skin just because of a movie is a frightening thing to deal with. I am still terrified of swarms when they are somewhere in the real world, but on tv I have found them easier to handle, although no-one is surprised to see me occasionally scratch at my scalp.