Come out, Come out. . .

It was a snowy February evening when I walked out of Stoughton High School, chilled by both the frigid temperatures and what I had just witnessed. The drama club had just put on a remarkable performance of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None, perhaps one of the most well-noted murder mysteries of all time. The twists and turns throughout the plot kept me on my feet for the entire duration of the show, but the ending left me truly breathless. Justice Wargrave, a particularly mysterious character who was thought to be dead, reappeared at the end, admitting that it was he who had murdered everyone. He would now finish the story off by hanging the only remaining character.

It sounds a bit extreme, but after seeing this play, I became tremendously paranoid. I went to bed that night under the impression that there was a murderer in my closet. (I had this fear for many years, but seeing the play reassured the potential of a situation like this occurring.) My covers being my only security, I did not move that night. If he couldn't see me move, maybe he wouldn't know I was there. . .

The weeks that followed were rough to say the least. Night after night, I still imagined this murderer, watching me through the cracks of my closet door. I would awaken, half surprised that I was still alive.

As time passed, my imagination became increasingly wild -- what had once been my bedroom closet was now my basement, around the corner, or in any unlit room. Just as in the play, the murderer was able to navigate about the house in such a timely matter that he could be virtually anywhere.

Currently (perhaps even as I'm writing this very post), my "murderer" is still nearby. Seven months later, he still haunts me; however, my fear has grown significantly weaker. It's almost as though I've come to accept the fact that yes, there is a killer in my closet. The trick to overcoming a phobia is to not worry about it. After all, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.