Misplaced had a post about fears which got me thinking about my fear of clowns.
For some reason, I can tolerate Krusty.
When I was four, my babysitter made a toy clown for me. It had a plastic face and a knitted rainbow-colored body.
It's possible that I hated and feared the clown because I hated and feared the babysitter's teenage son in ways my four-year-old psyche couldn't really understand.
Regardless of the reason, I loathed the clown. My parents set it on top of the chest of drawers at the foot of my bed. It was by the window, and at night the moonlight cut rigid lines of light and shadows across it's squinting, grinning face.
Even when I hid beneath my covers I could feel it staring at me.
I think I had already turned five when I'd had enough. I needed to get rid of it, but I couldn't reach it. I decided to pull the dresser drawers out like stairs, climb up there, grab the clown and throw it in the closet.
I got halfway up the chest of drawers when the whole thing toppled over and pinned me against the bed. That damned clown must have figured out my plan!
My dad came in yelling at me. The moment he freed me from the chest, I seized the clown and threw it into the closet. Victory!
But I've never really shaken free of my fear of clowns. I'm not terrified of them or anything, they just really give me the creeps.