Fear on LSD: Based on a “Terrifying” True Story

Lake Shore Drive and the lakefront of Lake Michigan in Chicago

“Newcity,” I tell my wife as we turn northbound onto Jean-Baptiste Pointe DuSable Lake Shore Drive, “is doing a special issue on fear.”

“Oh,” she says, “that’s right up your dark alley. You’re afraid of everything.”

“I’m afraid,” I reply, “that’s not true. Can you name even five things I fear?”

“Easy. In fact, I’ll name six. One: you’re afraid of slipping on a banana peel.”

“That was a long time ago and it was less about banana peels and more about fear of getting laughed at. I can now safely say I’m over my brief spell of gelotophobia.”

“Ok,” says my wife, “I’ll start again. One: you fear someone you love being hurt.”

“Everyone does, so it doesn’t count.”

“Two,” my wife continues, “you fear getting close to me after I run a marathon.”

“That’s not fear, that’s revulsion. I mean, I love you, but after twenty-six miles you do get sweaty.”

“Three: you fear losing at Scrabble.”

“Wrong again,” I say, smugly, “One need not fear the impossible.”

“Four: You fear eating unwashed fruits and vegetables.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, snorting, “Washing your fruits and vegetables is just common sense. Have you ever seen what comes off a grape?”

“Five: You fear COVID.”

“I’m cautious, yes, fearful, no.”

“I’ll believe that when you stop wearing your mask to bed,” my wife says, laughing, “And last but not least, you have the opposite of FOMO. You suffer from FOBI, fear of being included.”

“Well,” I say, eyeing the throng of tourists crossing at Buckingham Fountain, “Hell is other people, present company excluded. You know, since you accused me of being afraid of everything, I’m surprised you overlooked phobophobia.”

“Hobophobia? You have a fear of hobos?”

“No, although I probably could be talked into it. I said phobophobia. The fear of fear itself. It’s what FDR warned the country about during the Great Depression.”

“Makes sense. There were a lot of hobos in those days.”

“Cut it out,” I admonish, “Phobophobia is no laughing matter. Look it up.”

My wife types phobophobia into her preferred search engine on her phone. “This is according to the Cleveland Clinic,” she says, before reading aloud, “‘‘Phobophobia is an intense fear of being afraid. Some people might be terrified of the physical symptoms that come with fear, such as rapid breathing or dizziness. Others are scared of developing another phobic disorder. You may need psychotherapy or medication as treatment.’ Okay, so it’s no laughing matter, but it does seem a bit, well, expansive.”

“I think it means that phobophobics avoid situations that might provoke a fear. Like, a person who suffers from turophobia might avoid dining out with friends who frequently order the charcuterie board.”

“Turophobia is a fear of charcuterie boards?”

“No, it’s a fear of cheese.”

“Why not just order the charcuterie board without cheese?”

“Then it’s only a plate of meat and pâté, and anyway, you’re missing the point. Phobophobia is fear of the germinal phobia, not fear of the object of the germinal phobia.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asks in exasperation. “Really, it seems all one has to do is slap a Greek or Latin prefix onto the word phobia and BOOM, instant irrational fear of everything from shopping carts—”

“Gouwuchephobia, obviously—”

“—to socks—”

“I think we can safely call that a variety of podophobia.”

“—to chewing gum!”

“Chiclephobia.”

“Now that’s bullshit!” my wife practically shouts.

“What’s-a-matter,” I tease, “suffering from coprophobia? That’s a fear of, well, you get the idea. Don’t you see, fear is the Godhead, the life force. Fear sustains us as a species. Without fear, our distant ancestors would have been eaten by wild animals long ago. And their descendants, those people jogging along the lake, are no different. They think they’re jogging for pleasure, but it’s really fear that drives them. Fear of getting old, fear of illness, fear of rejection, fear of boredom, fear of—”

“I get it, I get it.”

“Ralph Waldo Emerson boiled it all down to four things: We fear truth, fortune, death, and each other.”

“I thought it was death and taxes.”

“People hate taxes but they don’t fear them. Unless they’re arithmophobic. Accountants can be scary, too, I suppose. Of course, some people seek fear out, like caffeine. They’re the opposite of phobophobic. Let’s call them phobophilic. They’re drawn to scary things like horror films, skydiving, alligator wrestling, online dating, swimming at night—”

“Wait a minute,” my partner interrupts, “swimming at night?”

“Sure. It’s scary, but some people still do it. Personally, I wouldn’t. Swimming at night gives me the willies.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Well, you never know what’s lurking below the water’s surface. Something evil, or more likely something hungry, could pull you under. You wouldn’t see it coming.”

“Even in a swimming pool?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding, “I read an article online about a guy who was killed by a boa constrictor in his swimming pool.”

“At night?”

“Must have been. It’s pretty hard to miss a boa constrictor in your pool during the day.”

A Dodge Charger charges past our Subaru. “What’s scary,” says my wife, “is someone doing seventy when the speed limit is forty-five. Why do people on LSD drive so fast?”

“Allegrophobia. Their fear of being late is triggering your amaxophobia.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she objects, “allegro means fast or quick, so wouldn’t allegrophobia mean a fear of speed? But don’t people who fear being late in fact speed?”

“Don’t ask me,” I say, “I just repeat what the Internet tells me. Cyberphobia isn’t my hang-up.”

Our trip on LSD is ending, and I slow the car as we approach Hollywood and Sheridan.

“Are you going to submit something to Newcity?” my wife asks.

“I don’t think so.” I am beginning to perspire.

“Why not?”

Although the car is now stopped, I continue to grip the steering wheel tightly. “Doxophobia,” I tell her, and leave it at that.