Confession time: My Unreasonable phobia

[Gerald Creasy]

I can pick up bugs, catch spiders or scorpions, hold a snake and work on a roof three stories up.


But I've finally found the name of a phobia I've had since childhood:

Koumpounophobia

Here is an article that describes a girl with a severe case.

With me it never reaches "fear" but an intense revulsion and nausea.

[EagerBeaver]

Snap, I guess that cancels out the idea of Jude2 buttons at the Assembly.

[Shellie]

Please step away from the pain meds.

[MacUser]

Really? We'll you and the rest of us.. don't suffer from this one.

DOXOPHOBIA - fear of expressing opinions.

[Shellie]

macuser wrote:

Really? We'll you and the rest of us.. don't suffer from this one.

DOXOPHOBIA - fear of expressing opinions.

What would the fear of standing by your opinion be known as? Is there one of those?

[Alan]

It's a good thing her boyfriend isn't scared of zippers (couldn't find what phobia that would be).

[Shellie]

Alan wrote:

It's a good thing her boyfriend isn't scared of zippers (couldn't find what phobia that would be).

Virginphobia?

[MacUser]

Alan wrote:

It's a good thing her boyfriend isn't scared of zippers (couldn't find what phobia that would be).

Virginphobia?

Isn't that cute as a button.

[soulsearcher]

I TOTALLY get it guys. Buttons and doorknobs have faces that come to life... at least they always did in old Disney cartoons.

Oh my, I just realized I have EmoticonsPhobia.

[dolfan]

Well, y'all, that about takes the rag off the bush. I have never in my life heard of that, and, well, it just pushed the scale of human weirdness into new directions for me.

A new movie suggestion: "What About Bob: The Buttons Period"

That gal has to be in pure torture, or she's the oddest con artist around.

[crispfin]

[/quote]I TOTALLY get it guys. Buttons and doorknobs have faces that come to life... at least they always did in old Disney cartoons. [quote]

And that provides an excuse for an excerpt from Dicken's A Christmas Carol:

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang.

[pastorables]

If this is for real, and I don't believe every thing I read in The Sun, there could be a serious reason behind her phobia. The article says the first signs of the phobia appeared at around seven. What if she was abused in some manner before this age and buttons bring back repressed memories of some horrible event?

pa

[TW]

And that provides an excuse for an excerpt from Dicken's A Christmas Carol:

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including--which is a bold word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but Marley's face.

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a bang.

I said it before, and Ill say it again.
Scrooge was a wimp!!!


TW