The development of a phobia, or why crows are evil

It's an odd thing to watch a phobia develop in oneself.

Even odder when you know the step-by-step progression in detail and have tried to halt its progression in others.

My spider phobia, which has been detailed here in the past many times, has been with me for the bulk of my life. I have no insight onto its progression, no memories of arachnid related trauma. It just appears ingrained in me to feel my heart leap into my throat when one of those eight-legged creatures falls into my field of vision.

This phobia feels like a cruel joke, in some ways. It makes little sense that the girl who caught snakes and slugs with her bare hands as a kid, the only girl in her Grade 6 class willing to get involved in the worm composting project because it involved tactile contact with the slimy creepy-crawler, the child who loved frolicking in mud and searching for salamander eggs, should possess the most prototypical of all feminine phobias. At the very least, I wish there was a good story behind it, to help distinguish me from the masses of arachniphobics.

However, I have been teetering on the brink of a crow-phobia (technically term~ corvidophobia) for about five years now.



There's probably a little predisposition that comes into play before my story begins.
I'm not entirely sure anyone is actually fond of crows. Sure, they are smart, but they appear filthy, angry, unavoidable and loud.
Besides, the term "a murder of crows" has to have its roots in something evil.

It was about five years ago, in my former city of residence, I was stalked by a crow. Or so it felt.
For nearly two weeks, on a semi-regular basis, I was dive bombed by a crow on my way to and from my daily bus to the university.
It was intermittent enough so that I kept the route for likely longer than necessary. The crow would be gone for a few days-- only to return one day and dive for me both in the morning and evening. Eventually, I began taking a slightly longer route to side step the malevolent creature.

After several weeks of avoidance, I slowly inched back to my regular route, to find that the defensive crow mama had bidden the large tree on the corner adieu, and I was free to take my direct path to the bus again.

However, I felt the beginnings of a phobic reaction as a result of these few weeks. I became hypervigilent upon hearing the telltale caws above my head, and began paying a lot more attention to the black forms overhead. I used to joke that I would have had a full-blown bird phobia if the experience has been much more prolonged. However, eventually I became used to the near constant presence of crows, though always having that extra iota of awareness.

Fast forward to last week. Walking down a treed street, I notice a few overhead cries. Suddenly, a black shape comes swooping rapidly towards my head, narrowly missing actually contact. I gasp, and quicken my pace a little. Then daddy bird decides to follow suit, and takes a nose dive towards me. I feel my hair move. I flail madly, then clasp my hands over my head, shouting a ridiculously loud "No!" as I sprint down the block. It is only after I reach the safety of around the corner that I realize how foolish the whole situation probably appeared to some peering out their window.

The next day, I avoided that street. I also found my heart rate going back up whenever I heard a series of caws above me. My stifled crow-phobic tendencies had returned in a snap.

It doesn't help my case, that a few days later, my friend returned from a brief walk to the grocery store, rubbing his head where a crow had made contact.