A Curious Phobia

Most people have considerably rational phobias, such as heights: by falling from above, you are risking your life, so to stay away from this is an innate mechanism of protection. Others have more irrational fears, such as clowns or dogs. However, even these may be understandable: one pleasant summer's day, when you are about four years old - smiling through your round cheeks and undoubtedly bowl-shaped fringes - running your happy fingers through a Dairylea Dunker cheese, while grappling a squashy strawberry in the other fist. Suddenly, like a bolt of furry lightning, a dog snatches your beloved breadstick from your clutches and you are now on your back, bawling. Your fear of dogs has been conditioned, as you unconsciously perceive them to be mean, picnic thieves, possibly scheming at every corner to trip you up (literally). And, this can be resolved with kinder treatments, such as systematic desensitisation, where a therapist will patiently go through your doggy fear, from least to most anxiety-fueling (seeing a dog may give you a shiver, compared to a puppy bounding towards you, causing mass heart palpitations and screams only fit for a horror film), and eventually, you will conquer your anxiety hierarchy and will be able to cuddle a collie without wanting to die. (Either that, or you can go through flooding, where you'll be locked in a room with your phobia, until you calm down enough to realise that there is nothing to be afraid of - or succumb to a heart attack and die.)

However, not all fears can be fixed this easily, understandably. Social anxiety - extreme fear about social situations - cannot really be cured by a list, because of it's complexity. And, I feel like one of my many (many) phobias will be pretty difficult to describe to a therapist. A little embarrassing even.

When exploring phobias in my psychology class, we agreed on common fears of heights and the deep ocean, a few about feet, one about whales. And then I pricked the bantering discussion: "oh yeah, I have a thing about cuticles-"

Cue the "wait, what!?"
and "why cuticles?"
and "what even is a cuticle?"

I know. I understand. It is a little strange. But cuticles are my secret nemesis. They cause literal cringing spasms in my core, jerking my eye line away from demonic pushing and picking. (Do not even get me started on people who bite their cuticles - I want to be drilled into the ground if I ever witness that.)

I still cannot remember at what point I thought the slither that joins your nail and finger was as grotesque as I perceive it, but I can distinctly recall begging my year 11 English partner to stop pushing back his cuticles before I screamed (consequently meaning he did this more, just to watch me suffer). It is at the stage that I cannot watch other people push back their ten evil little finger-moons, let alone touch my own, which is really where the problem lies; my mum kindly bought me a voucher to get an inclusive manicure, which I have often talked about (finally owning nails of a distinct shape, and not however the nail clippers leave them). But, they cannot touch my cuticles. So when the lovely, beaming manicurist will begin to prepare my nails for a trim, I will have to find a polite way to ask if she does not push my cuticles. That aspect is not too embarrassing I suppose: it will be explaining why she cannot touch them.

And before anyone suggests (I am looking at my psychology class here), no I will not consent to being thrown in a room, with a rampant manicurist determined to grab my fingertips.

Apologies if this article made anyone else squirm about their own phobias, or if you too have a cuticle anxiety and this has awakened the inner dread of anyone attempting to paint your nails. (Please let me know so I do not feel so isolated in my quite hilariously-odd fear.)
Also, if you have a fear of dogs, I am sorry they do not bring you as much complete joy as they do to me, especially if you were the infant that was on his back on the picnic blanket, as a stranger's spaniel sniffs around your toes.

"You need help my friend"

Nostalgia on a Plate

Nostalgia can sneak up and grab you from behind at any passing moment, smothering your body, encasing it into a portal to the past. Sometimes, it leaves us wanting, and other times just help us through the day with an inner grin. This week, I got my dose of reminiscing from my favourite childhood dish.

Most of the time, we indulge in the past by flicking through photos of our childishly-chubby faces and awkward poses in the play park. I have a string of such photos above my bed, featuring precious moments like the second before brain-freeze, while I gobble strawberry ice cream with my mum and Nanny. Without fail, these physically frozen snapshots draw laughter from everyone, including my family who have seen them many times. And, I feel that when you really are nostalgic, you should feel literally lifted every time you stumble across your trigger.

For me, this came in the shape of a mid-week tea.

Ever since I can remember, I have worshipped mashed potato as the best meal anyone could ever give me: a fluffy dollop, mixed with grated cheddar cheese, accompanied by a little pot of baked beans on the side (always in a separate bowl and never touching). I would dutifully fold the cheese into this great creamy-cloud, until each mouthful would have a hint of cheddar, sprinkle on a little salt and that would be perfect.

I don’t know why I have always been drawn to mash, but potatoes used to be the winning food on any plate for me (only now it has been replaced by sweet potatoes). There are many strong memories it is bound to: loosing a tooth at my grandparents while eating it (even I don’t know how something at smooth as mash caused this); random bouts of illness that only my favourite meal could calm; happily instructing family members on how to achieve the ideal cheesy mound. Whether with sausages and gravy, folded into smoked fish, or on its own like I used to enjoy (and still do), mashed potato never fails to make me smile.

And so, if you are ever feeling a little low, or stressed, try to find your key nostalgic item, food, film, memory. I promise it will inevitably bring the corners of your mouth into a little curvy grin, and you will forget your problem – for a little while at least. Now, where is the potato peeler?

Love Poem

A poem about loving someone who can't always love you back #mentalhealthawareness

When his eyes are painted with candy-floss,

sugar strands unravelling onto his cheeks.

When he shrinks to half of a giant,

a spine curving around the moon.

When he peers at the carpet's constellations,

I know that I feel love.

When he sinks over the crinkled bed,

solemn like an astray nymph.

When his feet tiptoe to the past,

flinching under himself to avoid the lava.

When his knees clutch his fallen chin,

I know that I feel love.

When his song translates to a broken windmill,

intermittent breeze barely a finger on his nape.

When his soul is swept down a tranquil stream,

a hum of protest lost under the trickle.

When his mind is a quick-step but his body is on pause,

I know that I feel love.

When he floats past the hands that will always save him.

When he doesn't speak but whispers my name.

When he can’t see yet trudges into arms like grapevines.

I know that I'm in love.

No one can be an island