Fear of Flying Objects

I don’t think of myself as afraid of heights. After all, I’ve climbed out of a plane two miles above the earth and jumped off its wing, skydiving instructors in tow. It surprises me then when I look down from the top of the Empire State Building or even the roof of my four-story brownstone and feel woozy. I will look out at the horizon, back away from the edge and carry on as usual, fear abated.

I do, however, consider myself afraid of butterflies. I understand it’s irrational, that they can’t hurt me. But that knowledge never stopped me from shrieking and dropping to the ground whenever one danced by. Someone once told me there is a condition called flutterphobia – a fear of winged creatures. I never bothered to confirm it, but adopted the moniker as my own.

Like most kids, my sister and I ran through our yard on summer afternoons, swinging our nets behind us as we chased butterflies. We coveted the orange Monarchs and yellow Tiger Swallowtails that drifted drunkenly with the breeze. Mom would save mayonnaise jars for us, soaking them until the label peeled off, and Dad would puncture holes in the lid with his hefty screwdriver. My sister and I tore grass from the lawn and placed it lovingly at the bottom of the jar, a bed for our captive critters.

We never kept them for long; Mom made us release them before going to sleep. But I held on to one, hiding the jar under my bed, wanting to keep the beautiful insect as a pet. When my mom saw me with it the next day, she gently reprimanded me, explaining as moms do that it needed room to fly and would be unhappy living in my mayonnaise jar. I took it outside and unscrewed the lid, but the butterfly didn’t move. I laid the container down in the grass, jiggling it back and forth to get the dormant creature out. When it emerged, the butterfly bumped into me and began fluttering around my face. I swatted my hand, but it seemed attracted to my movements. As I screamed and ran about in circles, the winged monster found its way to me, tapping against my arms and head. I ran inside, crying.

A few years ago, I saw an ad in a local magazine for the American Museum of Natural History’s butterfly conservatory, where visitors could enter a manmade habitat and interact with more than 500 butterflies. My friends used to joke that they were going to take me there for my birthday. So without telling anyone, I decided to go on my own.

The vivarium was over 1,300 square feet and looked like a greenhouse with plastic and aluminum walls. The last words spoken to me by the ticket agent were, “When you leave, please be sure to check yourself for butterflies.” The hair on my arms were already standing on end. I thought going by myself would help me remain calm and focused. But now, standing with my hand on the door, I wished for moral support. I didn’t want to go in there alone. I waited for a mother and her son who were on their way into the exhibition. I held the door open and slipped in behind them. I was immediately greeted by clusters of wings by my feet, knees, elbows and neck. One glanced my shoulder and I screamed, ducking down behind the boy I had just followed in. “I’m afraid of butterflies,” I apologized to the mother who stepped closer to her son. “I’m trying to overcome my fear.” I was still an arm’s reach from the entrance. I could leave. The woman seemed surprised, but genuinely touched. “This lady’s afraid of butterflies,” she told her son. “Look how brave she’s being.”

Brave was not how I felt. I put my hands over my face and closed my eyes. If I couldn’t see them or feel them, I could breathe normally and calm my racing heart. “They’re just butterflies,” I told myself. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You can do this.”

I opened my eyes and stood perfectly still, hoping the lack of movement would keep my nerves quiet, too. I noticed butterflies perched on people’s backs, in their hair, on their bags. I made sure not to take inventory of myself. A group of visitors had overheard my confession, and pointed me out to a docent. My singular concentration on the butterflies kept me from mortification.

He led me through the exhibit, pointing out different species, including the behemoth Atlas moth, with a wingspan of over a foot, hanging out in the rafters. I glanced up nervously from time to time to make sure the giant was still where I wanted him — far away. The docent retrieved a cage from a back room, full of tranquil butterflies that he carefully removed and placed in my hands and along my arms. They were delicate and almost motionless. The docent explained that they had just hatched and were still gathering energy to fly. He spent over an hour with me, asking if I was okay, and distracting me with information on where each one was from, how they migrated and mated, and how long they lived. I could even, for the first time since childhood, admire them for their beauty, instead of shuddering from their long, black bodies.

When I left the exhibit, I was exhausted, my nerves shot and my t-shirt drenched in sweat. I felt like I had just been through my own metamorphosis, clothes crumpled and damp. The docent gave me free passes so I could return to the butterfly conservatory whenever I wanted, but I never did go back. Today, when I see a butterfly, I still cower a bit, but I don’t scream. I just look away, and keep walking, fear nearly abated.