A Tale of Two Phobias

Tug-of-War

I was 12 when something profound (at least for me it was) happened at the Bar Beach, Lagos, southwestern Nigeria. It was the Eid celebration. I remember being super excited about a day of sun-filled fun with my immediate family and a bunch of aunts, uncles, and cousins. The entire clan.

At some point, barely an hour after we got there, I begged my mom to take me to a spot where I could wade. Mom agreed but insisted on holding my hand while carrying my two-year-old brother, Ibrahim, on her waist as we stood on the beach.

The beautiful waves of the Atlantic ebbed and flowed, caressing our feet, and it was a feeling I didn't forget for a long time. That was my first time at the beach, as far as I can recall.

Well, the waves became bigger and during one of the sea's retreats; it seemed to latch onto my legs and a tug-of-war ensued between the eager ocean and my frightened mother. It seemed the ocean wanted me, but Mother wanted me more. I held on to mom for dear life as I fell backwards.

Mom won the battle. She paid the price, though. She landed with a thud on her behind, holding on to me and my brother as members of our party ran towards us. I guess it didn't matter to her; I was safe.

I watched with horror and fascination as the sea went away with my print wrapper. It floated further and further away with each heave of the ocean.

"That could have been me, mom." Tears flowed freely as realization dawned on me. We fled the beach that day. Till date, I’ve never been able to go back to Bar Beach.

A Cascade of Phobias

After that experience, I became severely aquaphobic that almost every night for years, I would have nightmares that involved water flooding our home or being on a boat that capsized.

Going over bridges was nerve-wracking. Any fun, water-related activity was out of the question. Once I almost failed a major entrance exam because part of the route leading to the test center involved taking a ten-minute canoe trip across a river.

It took the assurance of a friend and strangers to get into the boat. Not once did I open my eyes, holding on to my friend and two total strangers the entire ride. Whew!

To make matters worse, my fear of water expanded into a fear of flying. In my head, it goes, “what if the plane crashes into the ocean? What then?!!”

I watched a couple of documentaries on how planes fly and why they were the safest form of transportation. Far from assuring me, they only heightened my anxiety over flying.

It didn’t help that back in 2007, Sokoto town lost scores of people in a plane crash, including a well-loved Sultan, prominent personalities, neighbors (my brother’s girlfriend, her brother and father). It shook the tight-knit community and hit close to home.

Prior to that crash, I had made giant strides and wasn’t as afraid. Everything changed afterwards. I boarded buses to travel from the north to the south of Nigeria and vice versa. Because of bad roads and ill-maintained vehicles, those trips lasted anywhere between 12 to 24 hours. All of that torture because I couldn’t break free from the mental chains caused by childhood trauma.

A Fish Called Funke

That boat-ride was the defining moment for me. I hated feeling vulnerable and petrified. I knew it was time to rid myself of aquaphobia and the fear of flying.

My love for traveling and visiting relatives forced me to board planes and white-knuckle it. Every single flight till date involves sweaty palms, a metallic taste in my mouth, New York Times Saturday puzzles, or the hardest level of Sudoku. I have flown at least fifty times, locally and internationally, and flying is still a phobia I struggle with.

Swimming is ‌much more than a sport or fun activity. It is a life skill. This is the truth I had to embrace in order to get out of the prison of fear. I had to overcome my fear of water, somehow. I had also read somewhere that fear starts from the brain and spreads to other body parts, preparing you for flight or fight! When confronted with certain situations, our brains propel us into a self-preservation mode.

It wasn’t easy breaking free. I had to trick my brain in a couple of steps:

Step 1: I went with friends to the pool a handful of times and just laid back and watched them frolic.

Step 2: A couple of weeks afterwards, I would sit in the shallow end, with my feet barely touching the water.

Step 3: I sat on the steps leading to the bottom, holding on tightly to the rail.

Step 4: I waded in the shallow end for hours.

Step 5: I made it to 4 feet and started really enjoying myself.

Step 6: I taught myself how to float on my back (still in the shallow end). It took about two months to get to Step 6, but by this time, I had very little fear.

Step 7: Determined to learn how to swim, I started taking lessons. This was after I realized I wasn’t that afraid of water anymore. I probably took seven lessons, and that was it.

I’ve conquered the years of nightmares that followed my near-drowning and now I sometimes bask in the euphoria of swimming. I could swim for hours and I’ve mastered almost every swimming style. I go under and stay under for minutes, stand on my hands, swim sideways, dive, do flips, the works. That’s how unafraid of swimming I've become.

My friends call me “Fish” when we go to the pool. I've indeed come far from being someone who had a paralyzing fear of water to this person who loves to swim.

I still harbor a healthy “respect” for larger bodies of water. I stick to the shore and stay alert for changes in the waves. When I go to a beach. I look at the vast expanse of water and sometimes I muse, "Once you tried to take me and you failed. You had your chance. Now please, I beg you, leave me be.” LOL