Alethophobia: The Fear of Telling the Truth             What is your greatest fear? Is it glossophobia: fear of public speaking; arachibutyrophobia: fear of peanut butter; Bibliophobia: fear of books; Catagelophobia: fear of being ridiculed; Chronomeentrophobia: fear of clocks; cyberphobia: fear of computers; daemonophobia: fear of demons; decidophobia: fear of making decisions; hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words; nomophobia: fear of being without your mobile phone; phobophobia: fear of phobias? According to Kendra Cherry, MSEd, “Almost any object or situation can become the source of fear.”             Once, while ironing clothes (about four hours after competing in a mini-triathlon), I felt like a vice was clamped to my right arm, tightening. A moment later, stabbing pains ripped through my chest. When the pain continued to strengthen, I told my husband I thought I was having a heart attack. One doctor at the hospital informed me my cardiac markers from a blood test confirmed I had a heart attack. I was in the healthiest physical condition of my life. When another doctor performed an echocardiogram the next day, he insisted I did not have a heart attack. My heart was perfect, and I should continue whatever I had been doing.             My husband declared I would never compete in a triathlon again, while I insisted that ironing was the problem, not the triathlon. Ferrumphobia is the fear of iron. I rejected taking the suggested medicine for the rest of my life, and after a week of rest, I resumed training. That was twenty years ago, and I have never again had a problem with my heart. I had trained insufficiently for the pace I kept during the fateful race. It probably sent my cardiac markers up and caused something to happen, but there was no physical evidence when viewing my heart, of a heart attack. Besides ironing, I would like to add zuigerphobia to my list of off-limit activities: the fear of vacuum cleaners, but to date, I still vacuum, and I still iron.             I am not afraid of death (necrophobia), but throughout my life, I have had a fear of telling.  Alethophobia is the unwillingness to come to terms with truth or facts (Alethophobia). I might have learned this behavior from my mom. One day, when I was probably younger than five years old, my father, high on drugs, threatened to kill my mother and all ten of his children. My mother called the police, and he was taken to a psych ward for detox and counseling. Afterward, his mother chastised my mom for “airing their dirty laundry in front of the neighbors.” My dad returned home, and we moved from the city to the country. He stayed clean of drugs but continued heavy drinking. When I was twelve, my grandfather molested me while my parents watched television in the next room. Apparently, this also happened when I was five or six years old (according to his other victims, my sisters), but I don’t remember. We didn’t tell. When I was fourteen, my girlfriend and I were in the school bathroom when a friend of ours (a black boy) came into the girl’s bathroom. He hovered over the stall, watching me as he discussed the smell effects of what I was doing. He wouldn’t leave until I finished. With my friend for support, we decided to tell. I would expect the principal to have informed my parents, but we never discussed it. The next day, the principal approached me between classes in the crowded hallway, accompanied by the voyeuristic boy and his father. They were only one of a handful of black families in a white school during the mid-seventies. The father cried, “I did not raise my boy this way.” The boy cried, too. They both apologized. I told them it was okay, but please don’t cry. I often wonder if the dad forgave his son for humiliating him and their family. Today, the after-effects from the incident bother me more than the crime against me—the cost of telling. At age sixteen, while swimming in our pond, my sister pulled the string on my bikini top, and everyone laughed while they tossed it around to each other. When it reached my dad, who was not in the water, he would not let me out of the water until I dropped my arms and revealed my breasts. I didn’t tell my mom, and neither did anyone else. When my dad was discovered passed out after having sex with my oldest sister’s maid-of-honor, it wasn’t his first indiscretion, but this time, his children and his brother saw what he did. My mom wanted a divorce, so he quit drinking, and she let him stay. Because of my faith, I believed I could help a new friend who had mental illness. Our friendship grew for a few years until I made her mad one day. During our get-together at a restaurant, she began climbing on the tables and criticizing other patrons, telling them they had committed the sin of gluttony and that they were fat and should leave the restaurant and stop eating. The manager said we needed to leave, but she wouldn’t stop. She became angry that I wanted to interrupt her free speech and spectacle. We made it out of the restaurant, but she changed toward me. I had already agreed to help her move to an apartment across the street from my workplace and kept my commitment to her.             When I walked into her old apartment, I noticed a handmade ax/hammer on a shelf in the living room. I felt certain she knew where my eyes roamed, and I thought she planned to use the weapon against me. She made no move to help, but I gathered her clothes off the floor and put them into a bag. I felt her standing behind me, believing she had the weapon. The way I had learned to manage the unmanageable was to continue as if it wasn’t happening, so I continued to work. She said, “I want to know what it feels like to smash your head in and see your brain spill out.” I said, “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” We continued to pack her stuff and then moved her belongings into her new apartment.             The next day, I knew I had to stop meeting with her. When I told her over the phone that we could no longer be friends, she said she had a gun and would use it to kill me and my coworkers. I couldn’t bear it, but I had to face my worst fear: the cost of telling.             In the human resources office, I discussed with the manager the threat to my coworkers and what led up to it, including my friend’s desire to spill my brains out. Five times throughout the day, the manager used the loudspeaker to call for Patricia Casey to come to human resources. Of course, the hundreds of people who worked in the offices became curious about my frequent calls to HR. We all had access to phone directories. Although I didn’t address this with her because that’s not how I would respond, I have often wondered why she needed to use the loudspeaker instead of calling my extension. Each time she brought someone else into her office, including the police and my coworker friend’s security-manager husband, she called me to repeat my story. Five times the humiliation.             People who had not befriended me in the six months of my employment suddenly wanted to make friends and find out what was happening so they could be in the know and tell others about the deal with Patricia Casey. The next day, when I said hi to my coworker friend, she turned her face away and never spoke to me again.             There is a cost to telling the truth. I tell if I must, but to this day, I am still afraid. Works Cited Cherry, Kendra. “List of Phobias: Common Phobias From A to Z.” Very Well Mind, 13 Feb. 2023, https://www.verywellmind.com/list-of-phobias-2795453. Accessed 19 Jan. 2025. “Alethophobia.” Wiktionary, https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/alethophobia. Accessed 19 Jan. 2025. Author Notes Thank you Renate Bertodi for your picture: lunatics in the city.

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