LCCH News Spring / Summer 2002

They should have! The trip turned into a total nightmare 800 yards of sheer Hell. At the middle, it was pitch black: the tunnel roof left only a few inches of air above the stream which I could just make out rising towards my stooped face: both exits were beyond sight and completely blocked by the slow-moving queue of strangers behind and before me. Was there rain in the air when we started? No idea! I could feel total panic swelling up my throat, and I knew that I was going to throw up or faint, or completely 'lose it' and batter my way back through the line of people behind. The panic rose and rose, and there was simply nowhere for my fear to go. Looking back, I now ask myself was the phobia going to be flooded to extinction? No such luck! I got out in a trembling heap feeling weak, dizzy and tearfully relieved. Phobia extinguished? Beaten? No way! It was alive and well, thank you very much, and I could hear it laughing at me from somewhere up above. It was just that much stronger for having frightened the life out of me!

Thirty-seven years later, weekend 2 in the 2002 Manchester Diploma course, Maurice Sterndale called for a volunteer to demonstrate the systematic desensitization technique for dealing with phobias. My hand went straight up. This was my chance! 'Piece of cake', he said. 'Just give me the scenarios, 100% down to 1%, and all points in between, then assume the position, and away we go'. And so it was! I told him of my worst possible imagined fear, the one that invaded my consciousness unbidden at the slightest trigger (being buried in total darkness, unable to breathe or move, and knowing there was absolutely no hope of escape or rescue). Plus all the others down the scale. Then into trance and off to my favourite place of relaxation, summoning up each of my feared scenarios from 0% up to 95% (I ducked out before reaching 100%). At every stage there was this lovely relaxing feeling, triggered by Maurice's rolling Oldham vowel, 'NOWwww...’ and the fear seemed to, well, just sort of evaporate.

Afterwards they all asked me how I felt. 'Pretty good', I said, 'And I don't think I've got a phobia any more. I'm actually looking for a small confined place to go and relax. The airing cupboard would do if I could get into it. I'm looking forward to testing it out down Speedwell Cavern (In the Peak District of Derbyshire).’

And so it was. Standing, waiting to go down into the cavern, I genuinely didn't know whether I felt afraid or not. But once I was down below, there was no fear of the enclosed space. It was just an enjoyable boat trip down a lovely cool tunnel.

50 years of fear extinguished in 50 minutes! I'm now left with no phobia, and one new puzzle: What do I have to do to get those rolling Oldham vowels: NOWwww... out of my head every time I go to find some peace and quiet in our cramped downstairs loo?


NEWS FROM MANCHESTER

50 minutes for 50 years - phobia, what phobia? By John Donmall-Hicks ‘The airlock doors opened, a cold draught of dank air swept through us and past the line of excited tourists behind, and we breathed in the fetid hint of a dark journey that awaited us hundreds of feet beneath our feet. A long flight of slippery wet steps led deep into the earth below, water dripping from the low ceiling. The rounded stairshaft had been cut for short men. I'm tall, and to benefit from the full height of the shaft, I had to walk in the centre of the stairs, from where I couldn't reach the low hand-rope loosely looping down to one side. And even there, my neck was bent so my chin was against my chest, and only my hard hat hitting the roof told me of the uneven protrusions from the rough, low ceiling - I felt very unsteady, and feared slipping on a wet step and falling the full length of the stone stairwell, the bottom of which could not be seen. The stair-base was cold and cramped, opening into a small dim cavern with a slow-flowing watercourse running through. The floor was a small boarding platform from which we 16 or so nervous souls clambered onto a rough-hewn barge-boat, with five or six three-seat benches formed across it. The craft rocked alarmingly as each person stepped in, and appeared to settle at a dangerous list down to my side. My efforts to balance the boat by shoving in towards the stranger in the middle of my row seemed to be countered each time by others moving the other way, so the dirty, cold water was at the point of flowing in and sinking us. The spotty guide was oblivious to this danger, preoccupied as he was with his dismal spiel of tired statistics and the string of weak jokes he had told 100 times before. His aim seemed to be to impress and frighten us with tales of human misery, degradation and death that had accompanied the opening of the cave's extensive tunnel system 200 years ago, and the mining of its lead deposits. And to make sure we were very aware of just how deep, inaccessible and dangerous was the system we were worming through’. My claustrophobia had been a problem as long as I could remember. I'd devised strategies to manage it. I used stairs whenever I could to avoid lifts. I counted the seconds in a lift ride, and if it slowed or shook, I would tense all over, and cold sweat would quickly form on my brow and in the small of my back. I walked to avoid the tube, or travelled early or late to avoid the rush hour. If I couldn't avoid rush hour, I'd travel at one end of the train to minimize the crush, and I'd find a spot next to the lowering window in the access door to the next carriage. I'd often let one or two crowded trains go through, hoping they had taken most of the crush from up-line and that the next one would be comparatively empty. I now realize that I planned my travel in precisely the same way my black friends have told me they plan theirs to avoid threatening racist situations. I don't know where this phobia came from, but I've always had a vague memory of being locked in the coal cellar by my elder sister when I was about 7. She denies it to this day, but that panicky fear that had the sweat running down my back at the mere thought of a tight, confined space, seemed to be accompanied by a faint echo of laughter from somewhere above. Or were my personal devils mocking me? I certainly felt belittled by and ashamed of my fears. I knew they were irrational, and I had tried to brave them out. One time I tried to brave them out, I was just twenty, on a holiday pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I had gritted my teeth and taken the guided trip down the part-flooded tunnel that leads under the walls out of the city of Jerusalem. The guides didn't check whether anyone suffered from claustrophobia.			They should have! The trip turned into a total nightmare 800 yards of sheer Hell. At the middle, it was pitch black: the tunnel roof left only a few inches of air above the stream which I could just make out rising towards my stooped face: both exits were beyond sight and completely blocked by the slow-moving queue of strangers behind and before me. Was there rain in the air when we started? No idea! I could feel total panic swelling up my throat, and I knew that I was going to throw up or faint, or completely 'lose it' and batter my way back through the line of people behind. The panic rose and rose, and there was simply nowhere for my fear to go. Looking back, I now ask myself was the phobia going to be flooded to extinction? No such luck! I got out in a trembling heap feeling weak, dizzy and tearfully relieved. Phobia extinguished? Beaten? No way! It was alive and well, thank you very much, and I could hear it laughing at me from somewhere up above. It was just that much stronger for having frightened the life out of me! Thirty-seven years later, weekend 2 in the 2002 Manchester Diploma course, Maurice Sterndale called for a volunteer to demonstrate the systematic desensitization technique for dealing with phobias. My hand went straight up. This was my chance! 'Piece of cake', he said. 'Just give me the scenarios, 100% down to 1%, and all points in between, then assume the position, and away we go'. And so it was! I told him of my worst possible imagined fear, the one that invaded my consciousness unbidden at the slightest trigger (being buried in total darkness, unable to breathe or move, and knowing there was absolutely no hope of escape or rescue). Plus all the others down the scale. Then into trance and off to my favourite place of relaxation, summoning up each of my feared scenarios from 0% up to 95% (I ducked out before reaching 100%). At every stage there was this lovely relaxing feeling, triggered by Maurice's rolling Oldham vowel, 'NOWwww...’ and the fear seemed to, well, just sort of evaporate. Afterwards they all asked me how I felt. 'Pretty good', I said, 'And I don't think I've got a phobia any more. I'm actually looking for a small confined place to go and relax. The airing cupboard would do if I could get into it. I'm looking forward to testing it out down Speedwell Cavern (In the Peak District of Derbyshire).’ And so it was. Standing, waiting to go down into the cavern, I genuinely didn't know whether I felt afraid or not. But once I was down below, there was no fear of the enclosed space. It was just an enjoyable boat trip down a lovely cool tunnel. 50 years of fear extinguished in 50 minutes! I'm now left with no phobia, and one new puzzle: What do I have to do to get those rolling Oldham vowels: NOWwww... out of my head every time I go to find some peace and quiet in our cramped downstairs loo?

	Go to page 10	Page 11		Go to page 12