‘You’re scared of balloons?’
Globophobia. I’ll save you the trouble of looking up what this is the phobia of. It’s not fear of a globe, or Earth or circles. It’s more complex and horrifying than any of that. Globophobia refers to the fear of something much worse than any of those other things combined. It could, quite possibly, refer to the fear of the worst invention of all times.
I am of course talking about balloons, or as I like to refer to them, little air-filled containers of anxiety and horror. Satan’s plaything.
‘‘Balloons?’’ most people respond when I share with them my oddball quirk.
‘‘You’re actually scared of balloons?" Indeed. Before you ask, yes, I’m good with hot air balloons (love them), and pretty good with small water balloons (I tolerate them, although I dislike them for other reasons).
I’m also OK with helium-filled foil balloons, much like you’d see emblazoned with ‘‘get well soon’’ or ‘‘it’s a girl’’.
My real fear lies with your bog-standard, run-ofthe-mill toy party balloon and just last week, a story on Stuff confirmed these items have now become the latest public enemy No 1, this time inflicting their wrath on the environment and not just my precious mental health.
Finally, these torture devices are being seen for what they really are.
Balloons, along with plastic straws, are becoming the poster items for excessive single-use consumption and their true worth – which is essentially nothing – is finally being noted.
I get they can look pretty, and there is a certain symbolism attached to them, especially when they’re ‘‘set free’’ as a marking of an event such as a funeral.
But I have never felt comfortable with that. Even before my fear reached the level it is at, if I saw a balloon soaring through the sky, my mind often drifted to where it would eventually end up.
I sometimes pictured the balloon’s corpse caught in a turtle’s throat or a cow lazily chewing on the balloon remains in their stack of hay. Not quite the symbolism required, I imagine.
Of course, being a mother of two toddlers, I am faced with my fear of balloons at almost every child’s birthday party I attend.
And of course, my kids love balloons. Their little eyes light up and they run straight for them whenever they see them, whether it’s at daycare or if they’re being handed out at an event.
My kids use their little yam hands to grip the balloon so tight that it makes that horrific squeaking noise, before throwing their faces towards the balloon’s surface, gnawing at it with their sharp toddler teeth.
Their little beady eyes stare at me while undertaking this macabre scene, while every hair on my body stands on end and my flight or fight anxiety mode kicks in to full gear.
What I don’t understand is why so many people are shocked when a balloon pops. That’s the only outcome, right? Like, how could you think it was going to end any other way?
When the inevitable pop happens, everyone who is aware of my fear usually casts an eye in my direction to see my response and almost always it’s the same.
Far from rocking back and forward in the corner, instead I accusingly start blurting out ‘‘See! See! I told you! Balloons are the devil!’’ before making a hasty escape to catch my breath, all the while searching my surroundings for the next balloon attack.
I can usually prepare myself for situations where I know I am likely to be confronted with balloons. Children’s parties are an obvious scene of destruction, especially thanks to the Pinterest trend of balloon garlands – shiver.
But sometimes I come under attack when I least expect it.
I remember once going to the doctor’s waiting room, a small square room with seating just around the edge.
It was some type of fundraising day and almost every square inch of the walls was covered in bright yellow balloons, meaning there was no foreseeable way that I could sit in a seat without my head being within 5 centimetres of a balloon.
My anxiety went through the roof. As I do when I’m feeling uncomfortable, I made a joke with the receptionist about my fear of balloons.
Something in my wavering voice must have revealed my true fear because she suddenly popped up from her seat and offered to move some away to make a ‘‘balloon-free’’ area.
It would have been pointless though. Just being in the presence of these air-filled torture devices was setting me off and, as per usual, my appointment time came and went and I spent more than 20 extra minutes grappling with myself.
As a psychology student, I have full awareness of just how ridiculous my fear is.
I even raised it in class once, to the sniggers of fellow students, and my clinical psychologist lecturer said she would start me on exposure therapy, with the first step holding a deflated balloon in my hand.
I snorted at that. A deflated balloon? Hah. Nothing wrong with that at my end.
But as soon as the inflation begins… well. That’s a different story.
I sometimes pictured the balloon’s corpse caught in a turtle’s throat or a cow lazily chewing on the balloon remains in their stack of hay.