I was hoping to be able to see much better writing this piece today. Instead, I have the font size set to 36, and truth be told, it’s still a bit blurry.
For the first time in well over three years, I ventured out to a doctor appointment a week ago. For days (many days), I freaked myself out with different scenarios. Do you remember me telling you how some of that outing was lovely (especially the part when I got to see our neighbor’s pooch, Bailey)? Since that day, I’ve discovered something barely beneath the surface that has changed my life.
I have agoraphobia.
Several people have hinted at the idea. I dismissed them, simply because I used to have wonderful times going out and about. Gary and I had the kind of marriage that lent itself to alone time for each of us. We’d go to the movies, pick out the one we really wanted to see, then meet afterwards. It worked beautifully.
And I grew to love eating alone in a restaurant. Gary didn’t care one bit that I’d stop off before work for breakfast, and I often dined alone. Still, I was out in public, and while I considered us introverts, we managed to interact with others.
Things changed after Gary died in 2018. I went to work for a while, but I know now that I was beginning a withdrawal. Maybe I wanted to be able to cry whenever I felt like it, and it’s no fun having people watch you do that. Over the years from 2018 up until early 2022, my physical health took a downward turn, but I was coming up for air – and a smile or two – when I was notified that a woman confessed to killing our missing son.
I didn’t know that I was having a panic attack as I was being told the details. All I did know was that I couldn’t stop shaking, my teeth rattled, and I was freezing. Well, it was March, but up until then I was nice and warm.
As I look back, I see that my first two panic attacks were after Gary died. They happened when I tried to force myself to remember the days following his death. They’re blank, and apparently that’s the way they’ll stay. So, the news about Clint brought the third attack, but it wasn’t the last. I’ve had a few since then, but the worst one culminated in a call to the nice paramedics across the street. They stayed with me for an hour, encouraging me to breathe, until they could safely leave.
As time went on, I learned not to let myself get worked up. I also learned that I would have to essentially live downstairs. The stairs I used to take two at a time, and race a dog down were now off-limits.
That means that people will see a bed when they come inside my home. I’ve learned to live with that. What I apparently can’t live with is the idea of going out in public. I have no idea if this is permanent, but it feels that way.
But here’s the thing: I’m okay with this. Some have said it’s not “normal” to be this way. Okay, define normal, then explain why you’re right. Who defines normal?
There have been others who are worried that my small area of living will become even smaller, that I’ll not want to leave the living room or the kitchen or my own little library. I say, “Don’t worry about it.” And there are some who will encourage medication that will supposedly help me get out and be in public. No, thanks. Enough with the pills already. I take enough as it is.
There is one thing, though, that pops up now and then, and that is the doctor appointment. Unless you can use some form of online appointment, there may be a problem getting your prescriptions renewed. I guess I thought that after the pandemic, online doctoring would stick around.
I have to add here that it is a whole lot less likely that one will pick up a bug or worse with an online visit than they would by exposing themselves to a doctor’s office. Just a thought. It makes perfect sense to me, especially for those of us who are basically uncomfortable or terrified about going out of our homes. In my case, add physical disabilities and you can see there might be a problem.
The agoraphobia, initially traced back to panic attacks. also affects how I deal with visitors. I’m not comfortable with everyone. I can’t explain it; maybe a little more research is in order.
In any case, I’m going to be okay. Yes, I have this condition. It has a name: Agoraphobia. It doesn’t mean I don’t have a full life. I have family, friends, and blessings too many to count.
So, yeah. Be happy for me. I am.
