When buttons trigger disgust: a bizarre phobia

When I strolled through a branch of Ikea a few years ago, I suddenly had to move my face and shake myself – in the carpet department. There was a colorful carpet there, from which I had to assume that he is apparently actually bought by people. The pattern: large, round buttons. Never the thing would come into my apartment. What a repulsive pattern. Igitt! I think buttons – gross.

Only a few years ago I found that this is not a strange personal tick from me, but actually an “official” phobia. Coum -hopobia that means in psychologists. And no, I can’t pronounce it without errors either.

Where does that come from? Even experts cannot say that. In any case, I had no traumatic experience in early childhood – neither in general nor in connection with buttons. I also don’t know what a traumatic experience with buttons should look like at all. But I’ve always found it repulsive. How my parents (and me) like to remember sighly: Already in kindergarten age I refused to wear clothes with buttons with my hands and feet. I remember a carnival that was completely ruined for me because my mother persuaded me to go to kindergarten in a jeans with exactly two buttons – for the carriers, where I was finally allowed to put on my carnival costume.

Fortunately, my elementary school period fell into the phase in the early nineties, in which you wore leggings and long shirts as a girl. I simply no longer attracted anything else. Certainly questionable from the fashion stand. But that was a lot back then.

Ten to twelve percent of all people develop a specific phobia in the course of their lives. And, as I was able to determine at some point, with not so few, buttons are also the hate object. The first “fellow sufferer” I met was my girlfriend Britta. When I strolled through the city with her at 18 or 19, on shopping tour, she also mentioned that she didn’t like blouses because she found buttons disgusting. I could have hugged her. I wasn’t alone!

This strange phobia becomes milder with age. That was the case with me, and also with the few fellow sufferers I know. At some point in the teen age, jeans were okay for me, coats with buttons also went clear. For some reason, big buttons are less bad than small ones. Sometimes I even wore blouses, but preferably hidden under sweaters. However, I am not a fan of it today when my husband wears shirts. And if a single, fallen button is lying around somewhere – preferably a small, made of milky plastic – then shakes me. And that’s not a metaphor. I couldn’t touch the little thing with bare hands. I even find the word Button Somehow gross.

Fortunately, this quirk is now nothing that significantly limits you in everyday life. Unlike phobias that are extremely stressful in everyday life, such as the fear of elevators, dogs, handing over or simply other people. This creates a real suffering – on the other hand, I buy clothes a little more selective than others and sometimes it shakes me – keyword Ikea – if others cannot understand that. That is acceptable. And the thought that there is a small group of people out there who is now nodding – that is good to know.