For the sake of journalism, I mustered up the courage on Aug. 25 to face my biggest and (according to family and friends) most irrational fear: the movie theater.
I can’t recall the exact date and time that my fear of the movie theater started, but I remember my grandma talking about the bugs, the confinement, the danger–– and I’ve been stuck with those thoughts ever since. She was my general leading me into the battle I faced ahead. But could I get past this?
My stomach churns at the thought of the confined, dark room with little-to-no viable exit routes and the chairs that are probably infested with bed bugs or lice, but certainly covered in heaps of unnamed germs.
When I told my Mom I was going to face this peculiar fear of mine, she was ecstatic. It’s only every weekend my family comes to my room asking “Hey, wanna go see a movie tonight?” to which I always reply with a firm “No.” She rushed to the computer to buy tickets for “The Big Sick,” a new movie about a Pakistani comedian falling in love with a girl who gets very sick. It was a comedy, so it might relieve some of my fears, she hoped.
She was wrong.
Armed with my blankets as if they were swords, I walked through the glass doors of the old, sketchy Glenwood Arts theater into a quiet room with a single ticket counter. Inside I saw a small concessions stand surrounded by neon lights. It had that eerie, barren diner vibe–– the same diner where you would get kidnapped in the parking lot as you leave.
Trying to avoid entering the theater itself for as long as I could, I quickly stepped into the line of people waiting to buy candy and popcorn. I was too busy focusing on my shaking knees to hear my Dad ask me what I wanted. But when I finally looked up at the grinning worker in his red vest and purple tie, I knew my choice of ammunition: Mike-and-Ikes.
The clock read 7:45 so it was time for us to grab a seat for the 7:50 pm movie. A propped-open faded mint door led to what I was dreading most. I walked through the door, trying to pretend that I was confident the fear would raise its white flag, but I found that the door only led to a long, narrow hallway to the theater––the exact confinement I’d been dreading.
As I panned the narrow hallway for my exit strategy, all I could think about was the Aurora, Colorado movie theater shooting. I am not crazy, this has happened before and could happen again. Every step forward felt like five steps backward. The hallway got longer and longer and longer. And my thoughts got stronger and stronger.
When I reached the theater, I placed my blanket down to shield myself from one of my enemies: a creaky fabric-covered seat possibly covered in bugs located closest to the exit- just as a precaution. I shuddered as I looked around. The walls were covered in a pleated, mustard fabric. It looked like an accordion ready to flatten together with me inside. All I could think about was the flammability of that hideous wall. It could easily burst in flames while I tried to shove my way through the other movie-goers toward the tiny, poorly lit exits outside.
The lights dropped, and the green “The following preview has been approved for appropriate audiences by the Motion Pictures Association of America, Inc.” screen appeared. I fidgeted in my seat for the next two hours and four minutes and nervously ripped my cuticles apart until they were raw.
As soon as I heard the music accompanying the ending credits start to play, signaling the end of the fight, I lept to my feet. I grabbed my bag of uneaten Mike-and-Ikes, threw off my hood and carefully picked up my now-contaminated blanket with my thumb and index finger all while pushing my Dad out of the theater door.
As we drove home, I knew I was never going back. Although I came out on top of my inner battle against the theater, I plan to put my arms and battle tactics away and not step into another one for the time being. My fear of movie theaters manifests from my fear of everything: big cities, being alone, heights, closed spaces and even ketchup. So even though I came out just as disgusted as I came in, I learned I’ll live. Even if my symptoms matched those of something that resembles PTSD.