#pteronophobia

Welcome back to Phobia of the Week!

🔆This week’s phobia is Pteronophobia, the fear of feathers.

Many with this phobia are specifically afraid of being tickled by feathers. 

Do you have any unique interpretations of this phobia? Feel free to reply to this post with your ideas!

Last week’s phobia

Pteronophobia is the fear of being tickled by feathers.

This week has been a whirlwind, between the paper, a speech about real bunnies as easter gifts that just made me miss my late bunny, learning I have mild ocd, my pteronophobia getting worse, the a&p teacher choices for next semester all suck. On top of stuff I still have to do urgh

Plus as an introvert there are times where I crave alone time, but then if I’m alone by myself for long enough I start to get sad intrusive thoughts and worry about the things I’m not doing or that I’m not trying hard enough. It keeps me up at night because I don’t want to forget what I’m worried about in the first place. My counselor told me it’s probably part of the obsessional thinking, so in a way, it’s good to know it’s not something a typical person would do.

In regards to the pteronophobia, the last few weeks on campus, I would see some big feather on the ground and it’s gotten to the point where even encountering the big ones will bring me to tears and I’ll be highly anxious for hours afterward. Now I’m afraid to even walk to the areas where birds flock because I think a feather will fall on me from the sky--the vultures in particular terrify me because of how large their feathers are.

Arachibutyrophobia: The fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Luposlipophobia: The innate fear of running around your kitchen table, being pursued by wolves, on a newly polished floor while wearing fresh socks.

When Daddy bludgeoned the injured possum against the asphalt with his crowbar, the boy fell on his tailbone and watched as it squirmed, mouth ajar.

Daddy caressed the boy between the shoulder blades: "It's hard for you, Berty, I know.  This is hard for the both of us.  Do you want it to suffer?"

"No," the boy replied.

"Look at it, boy.  The summation of all things."  Daddy scratched his chin with grimy, landscaper's nails.  "We're not any different, in the end."  Daddy snorted ... and coughed.  Wet and bronchial.  He spit something out.  Something red.  The boy turned away. 

He didn't like seeing that. 

"I promise it will be quick."  Daddy held up the gored end of the jimmy for punctuation.  "Finish it."  

Daddy's green trucker cap concealed the eyes and the bridge of the nose.  There was something there he needed to obscure.  The boy saw, amidst the grizzled stubble, that Daddy's smile was shrinking. 

The boy refused the crowbar.  Daddy exhaled.  He scowled in disappointment.  "You're not ready yet.  That's OK.  You're just not ready."  He got up -- knees popping -- and tottered to the porch, clumsily unscrewing the lid off a sterling silver flask.  He sat on the northernmost step, fiddling with the chipped red paint. 

Shed flakes of snakeskin fell from his dried lips and floated to the ground, spinning like sycamore seeds. 

He pocketed the flask and lit a Lucky Strike, watching the boy lay back on the pavement.  "Just lie there and relax, Berty.  We still have time."

The boy watched the telephone lines intersect the blue sky.  Beyond them, nothing but cyan brushed with cirrus clouds.  An Acadian Flycatcher sat on the line closest to him.  The bird flapped its wings and set flight.