Phobia

Eris is a fighter. Today in the dog run she took on three much larger dogs. For some reason, they all decided to gang up on her. She was tackled, grabbed by the neck, snapped at, muddied. She was fearless, fierce.

Then we left the dog run. Directly across the paved walkway is an outdoor restaurant. Eris is terrified of this restaurant. She will not walk anywhere near it, even when offered tasty bribes.

I was there when this phobia began. We were together at the restaurant, where I began eating at a round metal table with four metal chairs. I held her leash as she sat on the ground beside me. She was bored and began to walk toward a patch of grass that looked interesting. The taut leash pushed against the legs of a metal chair, making a loud metal-on-pavement screetch. Eris, startled, leapt away, which caused the chair to tip over: a loud crash, almost hitting the puppy. Panicked, she pulled away, and was so agitated that I gave up on eating lunch and walked her home.

It's remarkably persistent, this phobia. It's been three months now, and her terror is as strong as the day it began, despite her courageousness, even recklessness, in  dogfights.

I know how she feels. I'm perfectly happy hang gliding, trading extremely volatile cryptocurrencies, taking unpopular political positions. But writing! Sitting before the proof of my shallow, uncultivated self--a captive audience to my own mediocrity.

Anything but that!

I have some ideas as to the origins of my graphophobia, but despite these plausible psychodynamic narratives, the irrational fear remains, like a bear warning me away.

It is such sweet relief to avoid writing, such torture to return to it. Only mortality brings me back.