phobic fixation

Evolutionarily, fear has served humanity well—it’s kept us alive. But as our understanding of the world has expanded, so too has our capacity to manipulate and reshape fear into something much more than a simple survival mechanism. From the myths of Phobos and Sekhmet to the modern psychological theories of Kierkegaard, fear has been a powerful force in shaping human consciousness, culture, and identity.

On a physiological level, fear triggers the release of adrenaline and dopamine, creating a biochemical reaction that can be addictive. This explains why some people are drawn to fear-based experiences, whether through extreme sports, horror films, or thrill-seeking behavior. The rush of adrenaline, followed by the relief of safety, creates a cycle where fear becomes not something to be avoided, but something to be sought out. This mirrors the myth of Sekhmet, whose bloodlust became uncontrollable until the gods intervened. In this way, fear can become a form of obsession, where the need for the emotional high overrides the original intent of protection.

Fear is one of the oldest human instincts, rooted in our evolutionary drive to survive. Historically, fear served as a protective mechanism, triggering the fight-or-flight response. From the lurking predators of our ancestors to modern existential threats, fear has evolved into something far more abstract. As civilization progressed, our fears became intertwined with mythology, religion, and later, psychological frameworks.

Sekhmet, the Egyptian goddess of war and healing, was a powerful force of both destruction and renewal. Her mythology is tied deeply to fear, as she was known to protect Ra by unleashing her wrath upon humanity. One of her most famous stories involves Ra sending her to punish rebellious humans, but when her bloodlust became uncontrollable, the gods had to trick her into drinking dyed beer to calm her rage, preventing further destruction. This duality—fierce yet capable of healing—makes her a perfect embodiment of the paradox of fear.

Fear can be addictive because it triggers a heightened state of alertness and releases adrenaline and dopamine. These neurochemicals provide a rush that can make individuals feel powerful, focused, or alive, much like Sekhmet’s unleashed fury. When experienced in controlled environments—like horror films or thrill-seeking activities—fear becomes something people seek out. The sense of mastery over fear, the feeling that one has conquered the rush, can lead to a repetitive desire to revisit that heightened emotional state, similar to how Sekhmet's rampage fed her own frenzy until it had to be tempered.

As civilizations developed, fear became a tool for both control and exploration. Rituals designed to ward off evil spirits, sacrifices to gods, and even early forms of entertainment—like Greek tragedies—played with fear, helping people confront it indirectly. This laid the groundwork for cultural fascination with fear in art and stories, where fear was no longer just an instinct but a source of profound reflection. The ancient Sumerians inscribed their fears into the epic tales of Gilgamesh, showing how immortality, death, and the fear of the unknown permeated early narratives.

Psychologically, this addiction to fear can manifest in morbid fascination, where the unknown or the terrifying holds a strange allure because it pushes boundaries and makes one feel fully engaged with the present moment.

The ancient Greeks personified fear in Phobos, early societies externalized their fears, providing a mechanism for both control and exploration. The Greeks’ use of tragedy—where audiences confronted their deepest anxieties in the safety of a theater—was one of the earliest forms of controlled exposure to fear. Aristotle, in his Poetics, called this catharsis—the emotional release that comes from facing fear indirectly.

Phobos, in Greek mythology, is the personification of fear and panic, often depicted as the son of Ares, the god of war, and Aphrodite. He represents the intense, paralyzing fear experienced in battle. Warriors would invoke or confront Phobos before battles, acknowledging that fear was not something to be avoided but something to be faced head-on. Phobos's presence underscores the ancient Greeks' recognition of fear as an inescapable part of life, especially in the chaotic realm of war.

In Aristotle’s Poetics, the concept of catharsis is introduced, where audiences experience a purification of emotions—specifically pity and fear—through tragedy. By witnessing suffering and terror on stage, viewers confront these feelings indirectly, allowing for an emotional release without facing the real consequences of danger. This notion of catharsis implies that fear, when processed in a controlled environment, can provide relief from deeper anxieties.

Yet, we can challenge Aristotle’s idea through Heraclitus’ philosophy, particularly his concept of flow—the belief that reality is in a constant state of flux, where opposites are interconnected. Instead of viewing fear as something that can be purged or released, Heraclitus might argue that fear is a continuous part of life’s dynamic flow. Rather than being a single, cathartic event, the process of facing fear could be seen as part of an ongoing transformation, where fear and courage cycle through life like the interplay between war and peace, life and death.

If we extend Heraclitus’ thinking, fear doesn’t just provide catharsis; it also drives the process of becoming. Phobos, the embodiment of fear, challenges us not just to expel our anxieties but to integrate them, transforming them into resilience. This constant negotiation with fear, like the flux Heraclitus described, is what pushes humans toward growth, change, and the creation of meaning. Therefore, rather than being merely an emotional release, fear becomes a vital, dynamic force that compels us to confront the uncertainties and inevitable transformations of life.

This shift questions whether fear, or the experience of it in entertainment, truly "purges" our emotions or instead continually feeds into a deeper cycle of engagement with the unknown. Fear is not so much purged as it is transformed, continually reshaping how we live and understand the world around us, like the gods Phobos and Sekhmet—both terrifying, yet integral to the balance between destruction and renewal.

The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard explored fear and anxiety as essential human conditions. In his work, The Concept of Anxiety, he saw fear not just as a response to external threats, but as a reflection of deeper existential questions. Anxiety, he argued, arises from the possibility of freedom, the dizzying openness of potential that both excites and terrifies us. It is the fear of the unknown—of possibilities we may or may not choose—that anchors us in this psychological tension.

Søren Kierkegaard’s exploration of fear and anxiety in The Concept of Anxiety introduces a profound psychological and existential framework. He sees anxiety not merely as a reaction to external threats but as a reflection of the human condition itself. Kierkegaard famously described anxiety as “the dizziness of freedom,” emphasizing the tension between the limitless possibilities we face and the overwhelming responsibility that comes with making choices. This feeling, for Kierkegaard, is both exhilarating and terrifying—freedom opens infinite paths, yet none come without consequence.

For Kierkegaard, anxiety is tied to the concept of sin and the fall of man, representing the moment when Adam, confronted with choice, experiences the first instance of existential dread. The choice itself—the ability to sin or not to sin—creates anxiety. In this view, anxiety is inherently linked to human freedom and the awareness of possibility. This duality of fear and freedom is what defines our existential angst. Kierkegaard wrote, “Whoever has learned to be anxious in the right way has learned the ultimate,” indicating that anxiety is a necessary aspect of grappling with existence itself.

In postmodern thought, Kierkegaard’s ideas find echoes in how identity and subjectivity are continuously deconstructed and reconstructed. Thinkers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Michel Foucault expanded on this tension between freedom and societal constraints, suggesting that the self is not fixed but fluid, shaped by choices, circumstances, and external forces. Sartre, in particular, emphasized the weight of "radical freedom," where we are condemned to be free—constantly defining ourselves through the choices we make, even in the face of existential dread.

Postmodernism complicates Kierkegaard’s idea of a core self facing existential anxiety by suggesting that identity is fragmented, constantly shifting, and constructed through language, power dynamics, and societal narratives. The fear of the unknown—central to Kierkegaard’s anxiety—can be seen in postmodernism’s critique of the instability of meaning itself. As Kierkegaard saw anxiety arising from the possibility of freedom, postmodern thinkers might argue that the multiplicity of identities and the lack of a singular, stable self only amplifies this anxiety, making the existential question of "who am I?" more complex and unsettling.

In this context, Kierkegaard’s notion of anxiety becomes a starting point for postmodern thought, where the open-ended nature of freedom, identity, and existence fuels a continuous, unresolved tension. Grasping this can lead to profound self-awareness or, as Kierkegaard suggests, an embrace of anxiety as a teacher of freedom and human potential.

For Kierkegaard, this anxiety stems from the realization that, with no predetermined path, we are responsible for shaping our own existence. This responsibility produces a psychological tension, as we face the unknown of what might be—a kind of existential vertigo. Kierkegaard saw this as essential to human experience: the fear of choosing wrong, of not fulfilling our potential, of becoming lost in the sea of choices.

The idea that freedom provokes anxiety challenges the more traditional view of fear as merely a biological response to danger. Kierkegaard’s existential take transforms anxiety into something philosophical, where fear is not tied to an external threat but to the internal realization of the self’s unlimited potential.

Jean-Paul Sartre, another existential philosopher, expanded on these ideas, emphasizing that human beings are "condemned to be free." With this freedom comes "bad faith"—the tendency to flee from responsibility by blaming outside forces for our choices. Postmodern thought, by questioning even the structures through which we understand our choices (language, culture, society), might argue that the anxiety Kierkegaard identified is not just a feature of individual choice but woven into the very fabric of reality.

To speculate further, the digital age and globalization amplify these ideas: the endless flow of information, the construction of multiple online personas, and the rapidly changing social norms might heighten existential anxiety. If identity is constantly in flux, and if reality can be so easily manipulated or reframed through media, the very possibility of making a grounded, "authentic" choice feels elusive. This might make the postmodern experience of anxiety not just one of individual freedom but one of collective uncertainty in a world where meaning itself is often questioned.

Freud’s theory of the return of the repressed is particularly relevant in understanding the obsessive nature of fear. According to Freud, traumatic experiences, especially from childhood, often become buried in the unconscious, only to reappear in distorted or obsessive forms. The case of my wife’s fear of the doll “Billy Boy,” which resembled the Chucky figure, can be understood through this lens. Her childhood trauma didn’t simply vanish; it evolved into a complex fascination. By dressing as Chucky for Halloween, she was performing a psychological reversal—transforming what was once a source of terror into something she could manipulate and control.

In evolutionary terms, fear served as a biological safeguard. Charles Darwin noted how fear responses, such as the widening of eyes or the tensing of muscles, were survival mechanisms. But as we became more complex, our environment safer, the objects of fear changed. Instead of predators, we fear rejection, failure, and the unknown. Today, fear activates the amygdala, flooding our brains with adrenaline and dopamine—creating a paradox where fear, when controlled, becomes addictive.

Our cultural desensitization to fear has further complicated the landscape. Horror films, haunted houses, and thrill-seeking activities offer us ways to experience fear in a safe, controlled setting. What was once purely a survival instinct has now become a source of entertainment. This is reflected in the rise of morbid fascination—a condition where individuals are drawn to what scares them, not out of a desire to overcome the fear, but to dwell in it, to explore its edges. Philosopher Julia Kristeva spoke of this in her concept of the abject—the things we push away, yet are irresistibly drawn to because they remind us of our own mortality and vulnerability.

Language games, a term coined by Ludwig Wittgenstein, show how our relationship with fear has evolved. The way we talk about fear today is often casual, even humorous. But centuries ago, fear was sacred, dangerous, something to be respected. This shift reflects the human attempt to gain control over the concept of fear itself. By naming it, categorizing it, and even joking about it, we diminish its hold over us. Wittgenstein argued that language shapes reality—so as our language around fear has changed, so too has our experience of it.

Philosophically, this interplay between fear and obsession speaks to human curiosity. We are drawn to what disturbs us because it challenges our understanding of reality. It forces us to confront the boundaries of knowledge, morality, and mortality. Friedrich Nietzsche, in his work Thus Spoke Zarathustra, suggested that we must not avoid fear but embrace it as part of the human experience—only through grappling with the terrifying aspects of existence can we transcend them.

Ultimately, fear is not merely something to be conquered; it’s a tool for growth, reflection, and transformation. Your wife’s journey—from trauma to obsession to embodiment—demonstrates this. By confronting what scared her most, she didn’t simply rid herself of fear; she learned to live alongside it, to understand it, and perhaps, to find a strange kind of empowerment in it.

As societies continue to evolve, so too will our relationship with fear. From ancient rituals to modern psychological theories, fear remains a constant force, shaping our lives, our art, and our deepest obsessions.

In more modern contexts, we can see how the cultural desensitization to fear has evolved. Early humans were likely hyper-sensitive to environmental dangers because their survival depended on it. As societies grew safer, the things that provoked fear became more psychological and abstract. With the advent of horror films, Gothic literature, and even haunted houses, humans began seeking out controlled environments in which to experience fear. The more we confronted fear in these controlled settings, the more we became desensitized to the more primal fears that our ancestors faced.

However, desensitization doesn’t mean fear loses its power. In fact, it can mean the opposite. The more comfortable humans became with fear through stories, films, and media, the more complex our relationship with it grew. Fear became an emotional tool to test boundaries, confront inner demons, and explore existential questions about death, identity, and the nature of evil.

Historically, we can trace this through the development of media. Victorian Gothic literature—think Mary Shelley's Frankenstein or Bram Stoker's Dracula—introduced readers to fears that were more psychological than physical, playing with the unknown realms of science, death, and identity. With industrialization, urbanization, and the rise of modernity, fear moved away from survival instincts toward societal and moral concerns. By the 20th century, fear in entertainment—like early horror films—captivated audiences by reflecting their anxieties about technology, war, and societal breakdown.

As fear shifted from physical survival to more nuanced emotional landscapes early Gothic literature, such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, used fear to explore the boundaries of science and ethics. These stories tapped into the psychological undercurrents of fear, where the unknown—whether scientific discovery or societal collapse—became the new frontier. With this shift came the idea of fear as obsession, where that which terrifies us also captivates us.

Evolutionarily, fear has always served as a mechanism to keep us alive. But as we became more socially and intellectually complex, so did our fears. Today, we fear rejection, failure, isolation—abstract threats that our ancestors would not have conceived of but are equally potent in shaping behavior. The desensitization to certain primal fears (like predators) and the heightened sensitivity to societal fears (like isolation or failure) show how evolution continues to shape our emotional landscape.

Moreover, our relationship with fear is complicated by the very fact that we now seek it out. Fear, once something to be avoided, has become a source of entertainment. This plays directly into our evolutionary makeup: fear activates the amygdala, flooding the brain with adrenaline and dopamine, which, in controlled settings, can create an addictive sensation of thrill.

When what scares you becomes your obsession, it can be referred to as "phobic fixation" or "fear-based obsession." In psychology, this is often linked to conditions like obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) or specific phobias, where the fear of something begins to dominate thoughts and behaviors. The fear doesn't just cause anxiety; it becomes a central focus, almost compulsively occupying the mind. Some might also describe this as "morbid fascination" or "the paradox of fear," where the terror of something leads to deep, persistent preoccupation.

My wife's story of being terrified by her once cherished doll, the Chucky-like doll, "Billy Boy," and then later embodying that fear by dressing up as the very thing that haunted her, speaks to a deeper psychological interplay. Often, what terrifies us as children becomes a focus of fixation because, at its core, fear isn't just about repulsion—it's about the mind grappling with the unknown.

Fear and obsession, then, become a kind of loop. What terrifies us—whether it be Chucky dolls or existential thoughts—draws us in because confronting it gives us a semblance of control. It's why my wife, despite being terrified of a Chucky-like doll as a child, found herself dressing as him for Halloween. She sought to master that fear, turning it into a source of fascination rather than dread.

When we’re afraid, we fixate in an attempt to gain control over the thing that scares us, to make sense of it. This fear becomes a kind of inverted obsession. By playing out a psychological reversal—a way to engage with terror in a controlled environment, turning something that was once traumatic into something to wear like armour. It’s as if by becoming what scares we face the fear head-on, trying to neutralize its power over the mind.

This mirrors a broader psychological pattern. When people are fixated on what frightens them, they often develop a kind of morbid fascination, not just because they want to understand the fear, but because facing it in this indirect way can sometimes reduce its potency. In some ways, it's a survival instinct—if I can get close to the thing that scares me, maybe I can figure out how to live with it, maybe I can even control it.

On a philosophical level, this tension between fear and obsession speaks to the nature of human curiosity. We are drawn to the things that disturb us because they challenge our understanding of reality, forcing us to confront deeper questions. What does it mean for something to be both frightening and compelling? How do we navigate the spaces where fear and fascination intersect?

My wife's childhood trauma turned into a form of catharsis. By embodying her fear, she wasn't running from it—she was owning it. This process of confronting fears, especially through creative expression, isn’t just a psychological quirk; it can be a powerful tool for reclaiming autonomy over one's past.

This is how trauma, fear, and obsession form a complex but deeply human psychological landscape.

Fear, in its many forms, remains one of the most profound forces shaping human behavior, identity, and culture. Whether as a primal instinct or a complex psychological and philosophical concept, fear is both a burden and a gift—a reminder of our vulnerability, and a testament to our resilience.