Agoraphobia is a scary word.
For me, it conjured itself in stock images of individuals shrouded behind curtains, catching a fleeting glimpse of the outside world that they were too afraid to be a part of; people a mere shadow of their former selves, lonely and sad and without escape from their fears.
This wasn’t me, or at least I didn’t perceive it as me. So, when I was diagnosed with agoraphobia in January this year, I felt an immediate sense of panic.
Anxiety has always played a large part in my life. As a child I had been labelled ‘a worrier’ – shy and somewhat withdrawn. I hated any sort of change, be it a family holiday or even just a slight alteration to my simple routine. As I got older, I was diagnosed with chronic anxiety. I began to self-soothe by controlling my own routine, only accepting invitations when I really wanted to.
However, I became somewhat of a hermit. I still lived at my parents post-university, and I was single, so the only people I really interacted with were my colleagues during work and my immediate family. I would force myself on the occasional date, but these were often accompanied with such strong physical symptoms that I either couldn’t force myself out of the door, or the date would be centred around frequent trips to the bathroom until I felt I had stayed long enough to be able to call it a night.
“Social situations and trips out still remained a challenge. And then I finally got the diagnosis that shocked me.”
Eventually I met my partner, and I was able to find another person that I could truly be myself around. But the social situations and trips out still remained a challenge. And then I finally got the diagnosis that shocked me: agoraphobia.
The doctor that diagnosed me described the condition as ‘an anxiety disorder that perceives an environment to be unsafe or lacking escape’. With that definition it made sense, but it certainly wasn’t a label I was comfortable wearing. So I set about ways to unpick it from the fabric of my personality.
I accepted practically every social occasion I was invited to. It didn’t matter that I didn’t really want to go, it was good for me, so I did it. I went to the odd party (something that ordinarily I would have avoided like the plague), I attended family get-togethers, I went to evening dinners. My social life was actually somewhat busy for the first time, and it felt good, if a little exhausting, to be doing something.
And then lockdown happened, and everything changed.
At first, I felt a strange wave of relief slide over me. I felt scared of the future, but in another way, I was released from my self-imposed punishment of daily outings and social occasions. I now had to stay inside – there was no other alternative, and I relaxed a little knowing this.
But as lockdown began to ease, I felt that sense of pressure building up. It was like I was back at square one, like I’d made so much progress and I was having to start all over again. When I really thought about it, how much progress had I actually made?
The reality is accepting every social occasion when you have agoraphobia is exhausting and unsustainable. Throughout early 2020, I was met with daily panic attacks, nausea, dizziness, and constant fatigue. The anxiety was still there, fighting against me – but as long as I was out, I thought I was beating it, like the label that had attached itself to me was starting to come loose.
“Here we are, post-lockdown, ready to tackle agoraphobia again. But this time I’m taking a different approach.”
Lockdown taught me that I don’t have to do it all to ‘beat’ agoraphobia. I don’t even have to completely overcome it if that’s too much to face right now. I’ve likely had this condition for years, and to think that I can get rid of it, break a lifetime of habits and behaviours, in a matter of weeks, isn’t going to work. It needs to be gradual.
And so here we are, post-lockdown, ready to tackle agoraphobia again. But this time I’m taking a different approach: I’m learning to recognise when I want to go out, and when I feel I have to. And if I feel I have to, I don’t do it. When I do go out, I set myself time limits to help relieve some of the pressure. The odd hour here and there is a lot more manageable than a day out. Most of all, I’m attempting to relieve the pressure I place on myself. Being hard on myself was not helpful, and only added to the anxiety that centred around any occasion.
Agoraphobia has many different extremes, just like any mental health condition, and having a setback is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s difficult to estimate how post-lockdown will affect me, but this is the case for all of us, mental health condition or not. Lockdown has shown us that nobody really knows what’s going to happen next, and with that, I must relinquish any sort of societal control I thought I had.
For now, it’s a slow process, and I’m content with knowing that things may take time. We could all afford to move a little slower.
Catherine Earnshaw is a freelance journalist
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