Phobia of losing control in speaking situations. – The craftiest spider of all.

Today I chanced upon a picture-book from my childhood: SPIDERS. I shivered with horror. I couldn't even look at it.

But now I recall the memories watching those big pictures joyfully: I even admired a bit those crafty creatures; I wanted to create a band named "Spiders"; I was weaving fantasies, slowly, craftfully, calmly, in peace, like a harmless spider.

Psychologists say that a mere idea can be traumatic. Even more fantasies: think of bad dreams, or the LSD caused "bad trips". I think that the shock that triggered my ever lasting fear and trembling is the fact that I learned from that book about the Black Widow: that the female kills and eats the male after making love. It's not an accident that we stutterers have intense, impulsive imagination – thus we tend to overreact things with our rightist brain, instead of analyzing and understanding with the leftist. Or perhaps it's the opposite: instead of living through traumatic events, we block our emotions, thus we tend to overreact, overanalyse, overworry the similar situations. In one way or another: that could cause anxiety-related problems such as phobias. Like phobia of losing control in speaking situations.

So I have to understand, that it's not the spider I'm afraid of, but being unmercifully unnihiliated, the experience of squirming unavailingly, to being paralysed at the end of my suffer. Nobody helps; how cruel and unpredictable might be the others in the world, if my closest one turns on me: I know now that in the sunshine there are spider webs silently awaiting for the weak, and if I'm not strong enough, then I can only be a victim.

I'm not afraid of the spider. I'm afraid of myself – not being able to live my God-given life like I should.

I'm smiling at the suspicous Others in the morning, after I had flogging myself histerically when alone, to be able to wash off the nightmares. After I've done the indispensable for living, I'm all by myself again. I drink? I hope? I vent? Doesn't matter. The spiders are out there and I have no choice, I must cope with the daily nightmare. 

I wish that God told me in my dreams that I am the one who weaves the web of horror round myself. That the one inside is the craftiest spider of all.

But if there's no God, I'm a fool to wait for it. Or maybe it comes only if I don't wish it. 

Or maybe both.

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