by Kate Collins
I don’t like thunderstorms. Don’t like the noise or the lightning or the dark skies or the fierce wind or the driving rain. I don’t care how many good things they do, I am not a fan. When I was a child, I ran and hid in my parents’ bed. When I had young children, I took them to the basement whenever a violent storm came through, especially because the Midwest is so prone to sudden tornados. Yet, despite the possibility that by doing so, I scarred my children for life, my son loves storms, and, in fact, would be a storm chaser if he could. My daughter is ambivalent. Neither understands my fright.
It usually hits me when I’m home alone. All I can do is climb into my bed, turn on the TV (barring a power outage, of course. I can’t even describe the panic that thought causes) and try to distract myself.
I don’t know where this anxiety comes from. I’ve never been hurt by a storm. I bear them no grudges. Yet there it is. I’m certain there’s a Greek word for storm phobias, but I don’t want to know it. My other fear is that some pharmaceutical company will try to develop a pill for it.
Oops. Gotta go. Storm coming.