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I Live in a Cage of My Own Making
It’s easier to make than it is to undo.
I can still remember the first time I consciously felt afraid to leave my house.
It was the second summer after I’d graduated high school. My mom had less mobility due to having a below-the-knee prosthetic for the leg she had amputated the year before, and I was nervous every time we left the house. I worried she would fall, or people would stare, or we’d have some trouble between our destination and getting back home.
When I noticed it the first time, all we were doing was making a quick trip to the grocery store. Even with something as simple as that, I balked and became stressed at the idea of the process involved with walking out the door, getting my mom to the car, and getting on the road.
Over time, I started to come up with more and more excuses to avoid going out. Sometimes it was even just a matter of delaying the leave time until, eventually, we didn’t go.
I didn’t realize that I was developing early signs of agoraphobia.
You would think I would have aligned all the pieces and come to the conclusion myself.
Only years later did a psychiatrist mention I might have agoraphobia due to my avoidance of driving. I never clicked the two together, but it was true…
