Fright club

Dorothy Jonas has overcome a phobia of birds. Photo / Dean Purcell

Spiders, snakes, dentists, dogs, heights, flying ... we all know people with phobias. While they're irrational by definition, some phobias seem more warranted than others: fear of spiders means you won't hang around a white-tail; fear of water means you're less likely to go swimming and drown.

Yet nowadays it seems phobias are increasingly unusual and specific. Not that people usually want to talk about them. But on occasions when I've fessed up to my alektorophobia (chickens), people have admitted phobias of ducks, of water surrounding wharves or jetties, of cotton wool, and even of clothing labels and of beards.

Often people tag on the word phobia to describe a fear. But what separates a phobia from a fear is its extreme nature: a phobia is an excessive, persistent, irrational fear of a situation, activity, object, or animal which provokes an immediate anxiety response.

Various other definitions use the adjectives intense, unrealistic and uncontrollable. But the main symptom is the overwhelming urge to avoid the dreaded subject. Usually phobias are spawned by a combination of internal predispositions and a specific triggering event, usually a traumatic experience at an early age, as happened to me at 3 when a giant rooster attacked.

Depending on the definition and who you speak to, between 10 and 15 per cent of people suffer from phobias and it's on the rise, with higher rates among females than males. Although it's a chicken-and-egg quandary as to whether phobias are more common or just better recognised, treated and discussed, there are now more than 700 recognised phobias: everything from ablutophobia (fear of washing) to zoophobia (fear of animals).

A plethora of websites include www.unusualphobias.com and a Yahoo support group for people with uncommon phobias. Some people are comfortable with being forever phobic, especially when the phobia doesn't interfere in everyday life. But when it's something that you come across often (such as dogs) or need to do regularly (such as flying), others seek treatment and support.

The Phobic Trust of New Zealand provides services including support groups, clinics and a helpline, but because many people are uncomfortable speaking about phobias, especially with their mental-health stigma, the trust wouldn't put forward anyone for an interview with Canvas. "The stigma is still out there," says founder/chief executive Marcia Read.

"People are reluctant to discuss their phobias, and it's very hard for people to go public." We talked to four people who braved speaking out about their unusual phobias.

Dorothy Jonas
Ornithophobic

Aged 11, Dorothy Jonas was happily swinging on a tyre in a pine tree behind her school when she felt the flapping of feathers and sharp pecks on the back of her head. Magpies, which were nesting in the trees, had swooped in and attacked her from behind.

"I ran away screaming and they kept flying at me ... I felt like I was running for my life. Later I found out they're very territorial when they're nesting and, if you're looking at them, they won't attack." But that didn't help the terrified child, who never ventured near that swing again. Or birds. From that day on she became terrified of all birds, even tiny sparrows.

Although chickens lived on her family's bush property and later a sheep farm, that was sort of okay. "It all boils down to whether or not they can fly," says Jonas. "If a chicken hasn't had its wings cut, I'm out of there. [I just can't] stand them near my face. It's the flapping." For almost 40 years, spying a bird spawned an anxiety attack. "The heart races and you become paralysed with fear but at the same time you want to run," says Jonas.

"It'll build up, I'll scream then I'll be out of there." Trying to avoid them has always left her on edge. "Wherever I go I automatically do a quick scan of my surroundings for any sign of birds." Picnics and holidays have been cut short and walks on the beach have been a no-go zone because of seagulls. Once, she and husband Pete, on holiday in Singapore, had to cancel a prepaid day trip at the last minute because it passed a bird park. It's not so easy to steer clear of birds as you might think.

"Once in an art shop I realised the strange noise was a sparrow flapping away in the window, and I just wanted to be sick on the spot. I left, and left my purchases in there." You'd think she'd be safe in her own home in Albany, north Auckland, but there are regular checks for birds - it used to be that if one got in, she'd "lock and leave" until someone got it out.

Once she rang her mother, who lived a 40-minute round trip away, to come and remove the bird. And until recently, Albany was home to a feral flock of chickens - a nightmare for Jonas. "Once I went to a takeaway bar and a chook walked in ... eeek! I fled." People often find her bird phobia funny, says the 51-year-old.

"They'd say 'You're kidding, they're cute and fluffy'." While she doesn't mind the jokes, she was delighted when, talking to an acquaintance, she realised they shared ornithophobia. "It was like gosh, there are other people out there."

After 32 years of marriage, husband Pete has got used to the phobia. But frustration came to a head when the couple was planning a trip to Europe last year. After seeing photos of Venice, Dorothy knew the city was pigeon central, especially the famous San Marco Square. And emails from son Kirk, who'd just been to Europe, warned her she'd find it hard to cope with the birdlife.

"My husband was concerned we wouldn't be able to go anywhere and I realised I had to do something about this." Hypnotherapy and visualisation hadn't helped, but a decade previously she'd studied neuro-linguistic programming (NLP) without realising it applied to phobias. Finding out more about it, she swotted up on the approach and used the techniques on herself. Visualisation-focused NLP reorganises the way a person's mind stores information. Her first "test" was visiting the bird enclosure at Australia Zoo, which while scary was "do-able". Cue Europe.

Although nervous about San Marco Square, she braved the pigeons. "Hundreds fly at you, then almost veer sideways. While I still didn't like them I just accepted they were there." After in-depth study of NLP on her return home from Europe, the former residential-property project manager became a fulltime practitioner of NLP in November. She doesn't consider her phobia cured - birds still bother her - but it has "shrunk considerably. I'm no longer always focusing on where birds are or might be".

And there's no doubt that's improved her life. At Christmas she managed to "encourage" two fantails out the door with a broom, and she can walk unworried on the beach again.

"Recently a seagull annoyed me so I picked up my shoe and threw it at him. But the difference is now I'm not as scared. I can do things again."

Dylan Horrocks
Comicsphobic

A comic-book artist who professes a phobia of comics must have his tongue lodged firmly in his cheek, right? But Dylan Horrocks, one of the luminaries of the international comics scene, swears he isn't joking about his "comicsphobia".

Graphic novel Hicksville, comic books Pickle and Atlas, scripts for comic book series including Batgirl, and countless comic strips for magazines and newspapers are just a few examples of the award-winning cartoonist's prolific output.

Yet for almost 20 years, he's been hindered by a persistent, intense and rather tricky fear of comics. "It does make life a little awkward at times" says Horrocks, 42. Horrocks recalls the onset of his phobia. Consuming comics "by the bucketload" as a child, and sketching his own from age 9, he moved to London at 22 in to break into the British, then the French, comics industry.

"I'd decided my passion was going to be my job." Then one day when he walked into a comic shop, something unexpected happened. "My heart started pounding, I felt all tingly and a little dizzy, I didn't want to look at the comics and I had to leave."

The next time he braved a comic book store, the symptoms repeated. "At first I thought it was more an unease than a phobia. But it got complicated when, after contributing to an Australian comic, my copy arrived in an envelope and I couldn't open it for quite a long time. That coincided with a growing block: I couldn't write or draw my own comics."

Piling pressure on himself to succeed was the catalyst for his phobia, Horrocks believes. "The phobia had a kind of existential effect. Because I'd always defined myself so profoundly as a comic-obsessed person who was going to be a cartoonist, suddenly not wanting to think about comics left me a bit bereft really."

But he didn't consider giving up comics, treating it as a block he needed to get through. Luckily his job in a bookshop - one that didn't sell comics - paid the bills in the meantime. Then when an Australian comic asked its contributors for a story about their relationship with comics, Horrocks realised he had the perfect subject material "and a chance to sort this out".

During his teabreaks at the bookstore he'd pull out a pad and start doodling about his comicsphobia. Soon he started putting together blocks of text with separate illustrations, just like a children's book. "It was far enough away from the conventions of comics to evade the phobia."

Meanwhile, publishing The Last Fox Story as a little photocopied "mini-comic" also helped. The ins-and-outs of the mindplay didn't matter to Horrocks - all that mattered was that his unusual means of treatment worked. After finishing the story he suddenly felt a lot "freer" about his work, and about six months after the phobia set in, it released its grip. "I tricked my way out of it" he laughs. "I've always thought of it as doing comics by stealth."

Presenting new work in the same format, he also republished earlier work as mini-comics and scored a cartoonist job. In a way, he admits, his comicsphobia actually spawned success. But when he started working in "the professional, commercial, mainstream comics industry" for DC Comics in 2000, it reared its head again.

"The dark side of comics brought on the worst patch of comicsphobia I've ever had: a deep loss of my creative ability, an existential crisis and a genuine bout of depression. I had patches where I thought maybe I should stop doing comics completely." He tried the trick that had worked a decade earlier. "I pushed through the phobia by doing a story called The Magic Pen, which I've just started serialising, about a fictional cartoonist."

One who is, yes, scared of comics. "There's a scene where the cartoonist character is talking to his wife about how depressed he is and how he can't get any work done, and his wife says 'Don't you think it's time for professional help?"' But Horrocks didn't get any - because he didn't know who to go to.

Eventually his doctor prescribed an antidepressant "which gave me the headspace to start to kind of rebuild myself." While many people prefer to stay mum about their phobias, Horrocks believes talking was critical. "My way of dealing with things is to work out what's going on and come out the other side." He did - that's the period when globally-successful graphic novel Hicksville was born - and since then, the phobia has waxed and waned. Comic shops still yield phobic flutters.

"I can't say I'm really cured because it comes back and I don't know if it'll ever fully go away. But to deal with it, I've kept the rest of comics at arm's length to allow myself to immerse myself in my own comics." He doesn't read comics, doesn't talk to industry friends about them, and avoids the business side of comics whenever possible.

Clearly for a cartoonist, avoiding comics altogether isn't that easy. "My entire life spins around it. I get comics shoved in my face all the time, when I open my emails every morning and on Facebook." Digital media, he admits, may be a new way to evade the physical trappings of comics; he's just finished putting the finishing touches to new website www.hicksvillecomics.com which presents both new work and earlier efforts.

After The Last Fox Story was republished in America - a full-colour cover shows a horrified cartoonist frozen in a comic shop - Horrocks was flooded with emails from fellow phobics. "I discovered it wasn't a unique quirk of mine, more an occupational hazard that's common with artists and writers of all kinds." "I may just be deluding myself but I don't think my phobia's irrational.

A lot of people find most comics revolting. With all their covers of naked big-breasted women, comic shops often feel a bit like a porn shop, and those comics don't interest me and repel me too." And no, he's never minded jokes about the cartoonist who's afraid of comics - in fact he's likely to crack the joke first. "I do find the whole process really fascinating. The human brain is so f***ed up and I love that."

Jo Chilton
Pupaphobic

Coming face-to-face with a puppet at age 2 was a defining moment for Jo Chilton. "Mum was buying a Muppet puppet when a lady picked it up and pushed it right in my face in my pram," recalls the HR learning-and-development specialist.

"From then on, I used to get really upset watching The Muppets. I hated it when they threw Kermit across the stage and I couldn't stand the Swedish Chef. [Remember the bushy brows that completely shaded his eyes?] The Muppets would blow up heads and things, I think it was the violence towards characters I liked that upset me."

Her mother said she'd grow out if it. But she didn't, and at 34 it's not just puppets that scare the Wellingtonian. It's mascots and dressed-up characters too. "If someone in the street is dressed up in a big suit as a giant mushroom or something, I freak out. This one guy used to promote parking downtown in a big chicken suit and I'd cross the street to avoid him." Her usual reaction is a racing heart, sharp intake of breath, blind panic and a dash for escape.

"I try to work out the best path to get past them and get away without getting close to them." If she's with other people and can't leave immediately, she gets them to step in between her and the mascot. Chilton says her phobia isn't irrational.

"Phobias are a survival thing. I put it down to the fact that I can't see their face, their eyes or their expressions. I'm quite attuned to other people and their emotions, but with puppets [and mascots] you can't read their face or predict their next move. I really don't know what's in there and that's what freaks me out." Even creepy, animated creatures, like the monsters of the film Nightmare Before Christmas, are a no-go zone.

"That movie completely freaked the living daylights out of me. I wanted to leave but I've never walked out of the movies." Instead she tried not to look directly at the screen. "But in real life it's much scarier because it's harder to get away from."

Despite the intensity of her reactions, Chilton's never tried to get over her phobia nor sought treatment for it. It's not enough of a problem since puppets and mascots aren't something you see every day - although you never know when they might pop up. "Sometimes in the mall I walk past one and it gives me a fright because I'm not expecting it."

While she couldn't take her niece to a puppet show, she did go to see ventriloquist David Strassman and his lippy dummy, Chuck. It helped that after watching them on television she knew what to expect. "Although I do remember being on the edge of my seat in case something happened that I didn't like. But they were funny and not floating round the stage or doing abnormal things." It seems it's that abnormality, that otherness, that scares her.

"Even when I do know the person behind the mask - a friend was a gorilla mascot at a basketball game - he was under strict instructions not to come up to me. For some reason I cannot rationalise it in my mind that the person in the gorilla suit is my friend."

While Chilton's happy to talk about her phobia, it's not something she usually brings up unless others do. "There is that embarrassment side to it when you say 'Oh yeah, I'm scared of puppets." And she's used to getting ribbed about it. "My family, especially my mother, makes comments like 'oh look out, Jo' or 'don't look!' But it's not something I'd ever joke about.

"Luckily no one's gone so far as to actually put a puppet on my desk or anything. They'd quickly realise that would not be a good move."

Jim Mercer
Ranidaphobic

It was on a camping trip with his wife that Jim Mercer realised just how bad his frog phobia was. "A tiny frog was sat just inside the patio, and I ran into another room and blocked the door with towels, like you'd do in a fire. My wife Louise was in hysterics because my reaction was so over-the-top."

When Mercer sees a frog, he freezes, his heart races and he has an urgent desire to flee. "I tend to run screaming, well not screaming, but sometimes not far off. I normally want to slam a door between us, to make sure there's a kind of barrier. If there's one in the house, my wife is called on to get rid of the thing."

"But me, phobic?" he laughs. "I just want to see them all die in a ditch covered in petrol, and then buried in concrete. Quite rational really."

Although the Wellington accountant can't remember exactly what spawned his ranidaphobia, he has a theory. Growing up in Essex, England, he recalls that frogs were habitants of the pond at the end of the garden. "I never fell in or anything, and my parents filled in the pond when I was about 2, but something must have happened."

As a boy he used to collect little plastic-frog figurines, but the "pretend ones" didn't bother him. "It's just the live ones I can't stand - they're so amphibian, scaly and slimy." Despite their boggly eyes and slimy skin, it's not the way frogs look or feel that really bothers the 29-year-old.

"What gets to me is they can jump really quickly. The idea that they could get over to me quicker than I could get away is what freaks me out. I've never touched one and I never will." Even after the pond was no more, the odd frog used to pop up outside Mercer's house, especially during rain.

"I remember going outside at age 7 or 8, and spotting one out of the corner of my eye and freezing." No, he doesn't come across frogs too often nowadays, "but any time I do I'm pretty pathetic about it.

Once in Fiji we stayed in a little hut in a resort, and there were small frogs all the way up the path. I sent my wife up ahead and she shooed them so they jumped away, and I clenched my fist and knuckles and walked without trying to look too much," he says, laughing.

Others, too, find it funny. But nobody's gone as far as to deposit one on his doorstep or desk. "I'd get them bigtime!"