Ancraophobia is the extreme fear of wind. This is not a word for me. I don’t fear the wind. But I am not comfortable with it either. I feel attacked by the wind. I feel small. I want to retreat, hide, and escape.
Ancraophobia is never present at birth. The fear of wind most often arises as a result of a negative experience in the person’s past… Most often an ancraophobic person experienced a situation where the wind was blowing heavily and they found themselves afraid that the wind might destroy or kill them.
– Wikipedia, accessed 29th January 2020
When I was 7 or 8, there was a horrific storm. It was Christmas Eve and the power cut out. For some reason that I no longer recall, my dad had to go outside. The wind was screeching, lightning striking and the sky was crashing almost in time to the flashes.
I was terrified for my dad. He was out in this hellish tornado, surrounded by trees, and who knows what was caught in the wind. I had seen Wizard of Oz a few times. I knew about hurricanes.
He had been outside for years. Hours at least. I was scared. I opened my mouth but fear held back the words. It took a few tries before I could raise my concerns with my mother.
Looking back, I can see she was also afraid. But she snapped at me. Told me off. Made me more terrified. My teeth bit down on my lips and my fingers curled, nails in skin. Eyes kept on staring into the storm.
I was already petrified, unable to move from my place, on guard at the window. I didn’t need someone to yell at me and tell me not to be so stupid. It had taken so much for me to ask. To ask if she thought he was ok. I didn’t need to be knocked down.
I had visions flashing through my childhood imagination. My dad knocked unconscious. My dad trapped under a tree. My dad squashed by a fallen wall.
I needed to be told he hadn’t been gone very long. I needed to be told he was ok. I needed her to be the adult. To act unafraid, even if she was. I needed to know that in a fight between my dad and the wind, he would win. Not to be shouted at to shut up. I went quiet, silent and alone with my fears. And that silence was filled with the bawling wind and the cracks of trees just a couple of metres from the house.
I stood between window and curtains, trying to turn the shadows into familiar shapes. Peering into the darkness, knowing I couldn’t have seen him even if he was there.
I am not afraid of the wind. I am afraid of the power it has inside my imagination. The destructive whirlwind that rips through my imagination and decimates my safety net.
I am not afraid of the wind.
I am afraid my dad might lose the fight.
Written as part of the Wild Words: Place and Environment Writing course.