A Memoir

My Journey Through Trypanophobia.

Well it’s a long story, and it starts when I was very little. All kids seem to have a dislike of needles, and many cry and scream and throw tantrums when forced to deal with them. But most people grow out of it and realize that you can dislike needles and still deal with them in a mature, responsible way. I was not one of them.

I remember as a 3 or 4 year old being held down to get vaccines. My memory shows the room to be large, gray, and foreboding – but that could be my mind filling in some assumptions. My mom put me in her lap, and held me in a death grip as I screamed, and I remember crying all the way home afterward.

Then when I was around ten, I have another memory, this time of getting blood drawn. I cried and cried, but was fairly responsible (the only time I remember acting this was until just now), and I let them draw my blood. However, I got a bruise almost the size of my arm, and that was the last time I willingly let anyone near me with a needle.

When I was twelve I accidentally got my hand slammed in a car door an needed stitches. Because the used a needle to numb it, I cried and screamed so hard that the four year old in the emergency room next to me came over to give me a stuffed animal (it was a penguin), because she felt so bad for me.

When I was tested for Rheumatoid arthritis at age 15, they needed a blood test, so my mom took me to Quest Diagnostics, because all they do is draw blood, so they’re good at it. I cried at home before I was dragged to the car, I cried in the car before I was dragged into the waiting room, and when I made it there, the receptionist decreed that I had to drink several cups of water before they dragged me any further because I was so pale. So I drank water and cried in the waiting room before they dragged me back to a chair. They called back their best phlebotomist - person who draws blood – because they could tell I was a challenge. Cornered in the chair, I sort of became violent, and wouldn’t let anyone near me. After my mother conferenced with the others, in my mind vicious vampires out to get me, they decided to take me to a little room to lay me down. Naively, feeling dizzy by this point, I agreed. Only once they laid me down, my mother grabbed both my arms and held them against the table while the phlebotomist got the blood he needed. This brought back memories of when I was three or four.

I’ve been to Africa twice and Peru once, and all three times almost didn’t go because of the shots that were required. (I had to be dragged in and nearly scarred both by parents by my hysterics and how much of a fight I put up.) After my mom tricked me into the doctor to get a vaccine I needed for college (meningitis maybe?), I wouldn’t look at her or speak to her for ten minutes. I love my mother deeply, and that is the only time in my life I’ve felt that deep sort of rage.

When I had by wisdom teeth removed when I was 16, I cried no because I was scared of the surgery, but because I was scared of the IV anesthetic. Because I was hysterical, they put me on high doses of nitrous oxide (laughing gas) to the point I was so relaxed I’m not sure I could even make a fist. But tears were still streaming down my face as I begged them not to put in the IV. Thankfully, it worked fast, and I was asked to count backward from 10. Ten, nine, eigh……..black. Then consciousness again. “I E IE OW?” My first memory upon waking up, and the first thing I tried to communicated was, “Is the IV out?”, but I don’t think it sounded like that because I couldn’t really feel my face. After several more attempts, someone understood my question, and responded “No, the IV’s not out yet.” Black. I think I passed out again, out of fear and despair.

Then, after I turned 18 and was preparing to move to Oxford, England for a semester, I realized something. If something happened to me, and I was conscious, I would refuse medical treatment if it required a needle. I would rather be hit over the head with a large blunt object than willingly allow someone to stick a needle in my skin. And I knew this was a problem. 1. Chances are at some point in my life I would need to deal with needles in my life. At high risk for Rheumatoid Arthritis with a confirmed Osteoarthritis diagnosis, those changes went up even more. So, I decided I wanted to overcome my phobia.

As a college student, I decided to try the University Counseling Center. They had been recommended to me my freshman year by my psychology professor, Dr. Beck, in whose class I came to realize not only could my fear be a legitimate phobia, but that people can get over them.

As Wikipedia says, “A phobia (from the Greek: φόβος, phóbos, "fear"), or morbid fear, is an irrational, intense, persistent fear of certain situations, activities, things, or people. The main symptom of this disorder is the excessive, unreasonable desire to avoid the feared subject. When the fear is beyond one's control, or if the fear is interfering with daily life, then a diagnosis under one of the anxiety disorders can be made.”

I understood that my fear was irrational, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just make it go away. In general, I’m a pretty self-aware person, and have pretty good control over my emotions and reactions. But for some reason, my fear of needles wasn’t something I was able to control. My phobia had in some way started to define me, and I didn’t like that.

When put into a phobia inducing situation, my heart rate would race and plummet, I’d get lightheaded and dizzy, sometimes disoriented. I lost all logic, and reverted to fight or flight, sometimes both at the same time. Basically, I would have a panic attack.

I looked it up online, and first I found a name for my fear – Trypanophobia. Defined by Wikipedia, “Trypanophobia is the extreme and irrational fear of medical procedures involving injections or hypodermic needles.” Yep, that’s what I had.

So now we’ve come to counseling at ACU’s University Counseling Center. I started therapy in the fall of 2007. I had to take a break because I studied abroad in Oxford the spring of 2008, but I resumed therapy with a different therapist (because grad student therapists don’t stay all that long) when I got back in the fall of 2008. I continued therapy weekly through that fall, and in the spring of 2009 met monthly.

In therapy we went through systematic desensitization. Basically, I made a list of the levels of my fear – thinking about needles, being in the room with a needle, watching injections on TV, watching them in real like, having an injection, having blood drawn, ect. – and then, step by step we moved up the list. My list was more detailed than that, because the more detailed the better, but not necessary to get the point across. Before we started, I learned some very, very helpful relaxation techniques that I practiced quite a bit, and little by little, I started to train my body and my brain to have a relaxed response to the situations, instead of a phobic one.

We also dug deeper to discover the root of the phobia, and learned that for me, part of it was a control issue, and that to help that, when I was in situation at a doctor’s office, I needed to communicate to them what I needed them to do to help me through this. For me, that was asking for a few moments if I needed to relax, and having them walk me through all of the materials and steps they would use beforehand (this is the alcohol swab, here’s the needle, this is what I’m going to do).

So fast forward, a year’s worth of therapy later, I’ve reached the end. All that’s left to do is prove I’ve overcome my fear. I went in to the doctor’s to get blood drawn, and an IV treatment to help with the arthritis. I told them what I needed, focused on relaxing, and my hours and hours and hours of therapy were successful. I had a few tears roll down my face from stress, but I didn’t fight, I wasn’t mad, just a little bit stressed. It went so well, and it really wasn’t so bad. (Tearing off the tape that held the IV in place hurt much more than the needle, and I’m not scared of tape.)

The next day I went to the dentist. I went by myself because it was just a routine cleaning. However, they found a cavity. I’ve had a minor cavity before, but I convinced them to fill it using only topical numbing, and not the needle. This time though, it was between my teeth, and the dentist said he had to use the needle. I decided not to call my mom to have her come hold my hand, because I was convinced that I was recovered from this fear, and I could handle it like a responsible mature person. And I did. It was fine. And I no longer have a phobia of needles.

Granted, I’m not a huge fan of needles, and I don’t think I ever will be, but that’s okay, because now I can handle them. My first encouragement to someone dealing with a phobia is that they’re real, and just because you can’t deal with it does not mean you’re a wimp. People in my family thought I was just being a baby about it. I wasn’t – there really was some irrational fear that overtook all my rational thought when I was put into situations with needles. But secondly, moving past them is possible.

I never, ever would have imagined allowing people to stick me with needles, for any reason, without attempting first to put them into the hospital. I never could have imagined before therapy that I could deal with needles without sheer terror and an absolute panic attack. But I can. And I have. And I will continue to maintain my recovery, understanding that just as ground can be gained, it can be lost, and I refuse to go back to the way I lived life in fear of needles before.