I have always feared needles. Maybe it’s because I had more than a couple of penicillin shots as a kid (those suckers hurt) or maybe it’s just the needles—regardless, any trip to the doctor that involved needles also involved tears.
Everything went fine until it was my turn to have blood drawn. This time, in addition to crying (at least I’m pretty sure I cried), I also ran. I ran all over that tiny house: down the stairs, up the stairs, into the kitchen, I mean I just flat out bolted. He couldn’t catch me and was absolutely furious. At the time, it seemed as though I ran forever, but it was probably more like a couple of minutes because truly, the house was pretty small.
Mom saw that things weren’t going well and managed to both get Dad to stop chasing and me to lie down on my bed. I do remember crying then, probably from the adrenaline dump, and my mom rubbed my hand. I calmed down enough that Dad could get the blood and yes, I felt it but I didn’t act out any more.
Over the years, I’ve gotten much better at handling my fear of needles but it’s never gone away. Some of the reactions are involuntary (I have puked when getting an IV installed because those suckers hurt), but I no longer cry from fear. I still hate them though, and I guess I always will.