Phobia by Mandy White

concept. Her idea of email communication consisted of,
    Subject:
    Call me.
    Message body:
    Did you get my message? Call me.
    The message on my answering machine would consist of yet another request for me to call her. It drove me insane, not knowing why she wanted me to call, although I was pretty sure it was just going to be a repeat of the same conversation.
    Why couldn’t she just state what she wanted in the message? For that matter, why the hell couldn’t she just say what was on her mind in an email? It was free, for heaven’s sake! No long distance charges and no being attached to a stupid handset for a long, tedious conversation.
    What the hell is wrong with people?
    When my anxiety reached its peak, I found myself unable to pick up the phone to return anybody’s calls. I truly meant to, but always found an excuse not to. I would make the call after I had something to eat. I had to take a shower first. I was late for work. After work, I was too tired.
    Weeks passed, then months, and I still hadn’t called my aunt back. I shut off the phone’s ringer because I couldn’t stand the sound of it. She never phoned just once. Most of the time when she got the machine she hung up without leaving a message and redialled again and again. Seven, eight, nine, ten times she would call before finally giving up.
    When nobody answers the first few times, what the hell makes you think they’ll answer if you call ten more times?
    I thought that if I waited her out she would break down and say her piece via email. But she didn’t. Her emails consisted of increasingly angry requests that I phone her.
    Now that she was pissed off at me, I found it even more difficult to pick up the phone. I couldn’t phone someone I knew was waiting on the other end to give me shit. She would demand answers but wouldn’t give me a chance to explain myself. I’d have to listen to her berate me for not calling without getting a word in edgewise. If I did get a chance to speak, I’d be frozen like a deer in headlights and forget what to say. Then I’d stammer like the idiot she was making me out to be.
    I needed to make a stand or it would never end. My refusal to call her was that stand. I expressed that I would gladly communicate with her but had to insist that communications take place via email. It was the only way I felt I could speak my mind without being interrupted. Aunt Ellen refused. Instead, she just got angrier and angrier.
    I felt like I was being stalked.
    The feeling of hundreds of hands pawing at my body grew ever worse – Aunt Ellen’s ongoing demands for phone contact, my co-workers asking me to participate in their social gatherings, random telemarketers calling with surveys, polls or sales pitches.
    The phone was my nemesis. I hated it. I wanted to unplug it from the wall and throw it across the room. I considered having the line disconnected altogether, but the house phone was there for my convenience, not everybody else’s. If I needed to make a long distance call, my cell phone was outrageously expensive. If I had to call a 1-800 number that would leave me sitting on hold for a long time, it would be at the expense of my cell phone’s battery and bill. Plus, it was a matter of safety. What if I needed to call 911 and my cell phone was dead?
    Why should I inconvenience myself or risk my own personal safety just to prevent inconsiderate stalkers from contacting me?
    My policy was, no phone message would be returned unless the caller stated the reason for calling. “Call me,” was not a reason.
    After six months without phone contact with my aunt, I decided an apology was in order. I composed a carefully thought out email explaining why I hadn’t called. I apologized profusely and begged for her forgiveness.
    I was honest with her for the first time. I admitted to having clinical depression and chronic anxiety. I explained that one of the symptoms of my disorder was fear of the telephone, which resulted in the