Aichmophobia

I sit in the chair nervously, my stomach flipping, my breathing unsteady and my heart racing at a hundred miles an hour. I keep my eyes straight ahead, staring through the window as I bite my lip. The lady asks questions and I reply in monotone, the answer coming to me as if I were in autopilot. She makes a joke to try and lighten the situation as she cleans the skin on my bare arm, but I don't even smile. The nerves are almost unbearable. My legs bounce as she continues to talk, my senses inhumanly alert. I hear her shuffling things around on the desk behind me and I screw my eyes shut, my body automatically tensing. She makes me relax my muscles, and I force them to stay that way, searching my mind frantically for a distraction as the moment draws closer. I feel like crying, like screaming at her to stay away from me. I can feel myself start to tremble as she stops talking, and I clamp my feet to the floor, trying to make my body as still and relaxed as possible.

When I feel a light stinging in my arm, I know it's happening, and I'm petrified. My mind won't create a distraction; all I can think about is the feeling in my arm. The stinging lessens to almost nothing, but then returns. It's not enough for me respond to it, though knowing what has caused the sting makes me want to tense and jerk away. I don't, though, knowing it'll be over with soon enough.

And then it's gone. I feel her put pressure on my arm where the stinging had been, and I know it's the cotton ball they use to slow the bleeding. I let out a shaky breath I didn't realise I had been holding, keeping my eyes closed. I didn't want to open them just yet, not while the thing could still be in view. She asks me to hold the cotton while she fills out the paperwork, so I instinctively bring a hand round and press against the cotton. There's a slight ache, but I know it'll fade within a matter of minutes. It happened last time.

I risk a glance over my shoulder, focusing on the pen moving across the paper as she fills it in, not allowing myself to look at the other contents on the desk. I'm still trembling, my heart is still racing, and I just want to get away. She smiles and tells me that it wasn't so bad, as adults do when they want to reassure you, and I laugh shakily, cursing myself internally when tears spring into the corners of my eyes. I turn my head away and blink until the tears retreat. She takes the cotton away from my arm and tries to put a plaster on it, but can't see the wound. It's already stopped bleeding. Despite my unsettled stomach, I look at my arm and point out the small pierce in the skin wordlessly, not trusting my voice.

As I stand, I walk carefully, my legs unstable. I try to tell myself that it's alright, that it was the last vaccination I'll be having for cervical cancer, that it's all over now and I won't have another needle near me for a long time. But knowing the needle came so close, close enough to pierce my skin and send dead cancer cells into my bloodstream, is enough to keep me in a state of near tears and walking on unsteady feet for the rest of the day. I put on a brave face, smile and say it didn't hurt much. My friends know that I hate needles, but they have no idea just how aichmophobic I am. I don't intend on letting them know any time soon.