Mental Health

The Terror of Agoraphobia and How I Stepped Outside

The scariest thing that ever happened to me

Christmas Eve 1999 is forever etched in my psyche.

Computers crashing on the night of the millennium were the last thing on my mind.

Don’t get me wrong, this story has a happy ending.

I want to share it to remind us (me as well) that when Life presents challenges we believe are insurmountable, one way or another we find the courage to rise above them.

I disagree that we should never look at the past.

How can we measure the distance we’ve traveled on our unique road map, if we don’t have timelines to plot our progress? We may not have known then how to navigate around those obstacles, but we did because we are still here!

We learn valuable lessons along the way and are better equipped to cope when darkness threatens again.

The best laid plans

This story begins in South Africa.

Though I was born in the UK, I’ve lived here since childhood. Celebrated my eighth birthday on the ship to Cape Town.

At age 47, I’d left a management career in the corporate world in 1997. The stress was killing me, resulting in three bouts of depression coupled with anxiety attacks.

I then started a business with my partner, which failed, and my estranged mother was imploring me to return to England.

In 1999, we planned to start anew in Europe. I’d test the waters, and he’d follow later.

What a disaster that turned out to be.

I arrived early June and endured a desolate six-month sojourn in the UK.

Within three days of arriving, I ran from the bitter clutches of my mother. She suffered from borderline personality disorder and had never sought nor acknowledged she needed treatment.

(The reason my late Dad got custody in the divorce settlement in 1958.)

So that plan, to reconcile and establish a relationship with her, went awry.

Her final words to me were so cruel and ugly I buried them deep, little thinking of their festering and growing to fuel the scariest thing that ever happened to me on Christmas Eve.

I left London flat broke and moved in with a cousin in Surrey whom I hadn’t seen since childhood. She was cold as ice and we didn’t discuss my mother. But her husband was a kind man and could sense my vulnerability.

My first weekend there I accompanied him to buy seedlings from the nursery and spent the Saturday afternoon transplanting them into flower beds.

Earth under my fingernails was an effective emotional stabilizer.

I moved out the moment I landed a job and received my salary.

Fuck, I was lonely. A fifty-year old stranger in a strange land.

Home alone in my rented room evenings and weekends with a TV for company, the only solace was writing my daily journal and a weekly letter to my man in South Africa. (This was before the era of emails and social media.)

The plan for him to join me went awry when he was injured in a car accident.

On top of that, my GP diagnosed I had depression (again) and discussed booking me sessions with a therapist.

I declined. I wanted to go home — to familiar faces and places — drop my anchor in a safe harbor.

Arriving in December, I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Back in Africa, big skies, sunshine, lilting languages floating across the airport terminal.

Little did I know what lay ahead.

I should have known better.

Having encountered three episodes of major depressive disorder (MDD) accompanied by anxiety attacks in the years leading up to the millennium, medication and therapy had got me out of those black holes.

Heck, I’d managed for six months in England without support. Now I was home, no longer alone.

There was no reason to be depressed any more, right?

Here’s what happened.

Christmas 1999

We were visiting friends I hadn’t seen since my return to catch up over a meal on Christmas Eve. As we were living in another town, a two-hour drive outside Johannesburg, we planned to stay overnight, then carry on to join other friends who’d invited us over for Christmas Day.

Long after dinner, we were chatting and laughing in the lounge when my skull began to float and voices became muffled.

My first anxiety attack in three years.

I told everyone what was happening and my partner escorted me to the bedroom where I sat head between knees, unable to lie on the bed for fear of spinning out of control.

No sleep that night. Trapped inside my skin, I attempted a walk into the garden to view the heavens. Maybe that would calm me. But I couldn’t get my feet to step beyond the threshold — a deep terror held me back.

Meditation didn’t work either.

When my partner awoke, I told him no way could I handle the Christmas lunch. Phone, cancel and let’s leave.

I could only reach the car with his help. I climbed into the passenger seat and curled up in a ball below the windows to avoid looking outside.

On the journey home I only remember the extreme fear that permeated every cell of my being as I kept telling myself to breathe. On arrival, I grabbed the front door keys and ran like a rabbit along the passage to our bedroom.

And there I remained over the ensuing two weeks, with quick (and necessary) forays to the bathroom or kitchen, then scuttling back to safety in the shortest time possible.

I had entered the realm of agoraphobia where you stay stuck in anxiety mode.

What is agoraphobia?

Translated from the Greek it means “fear of the marketplace.”

It is an extreme form of anxiety disorder where the anticipation of a panic attack renders you unable to go shopping, attend work, be with people, go to the cinema, be in open spaces — any scenario where you perceive there may be no escape.

I’d established the bedroom as my safety zone, but craved parole from the prison of my mind.

A vicious circle.

The diagnosis of agoraphobia is where situations create fear and anxiety out of proportion to reality. In extreme cases, such as mine, you cannot leave home.

It was only once the psychiatric clinic admitted me I learned I had been suffering from agoraphobia, brought on by the severe depression I’d been suppressing since arriving back in SA.

Treatment

Agoraphobia typically lasts six months.

I recovered from the extreme anxiety and MDD in seven weeks.

The road to my recovery was via exposure therapy whereby I was gradually exposed to surroundings I may find fearful, to discover that nothing life-threatening happened.

For example, the first three days of my stay, I ate my meals in a kitchen attached to the ward. On my fourth day I ventured to the main dining room, with the support and encouragement of fellow patients.

When not in classes, counselling sessions, or occupational therapy, I ambled through the large gardens by myself and found a secluded spot to do my sun salute and meditation.

I was safe — locked away from the Big Bad World Out There.

But there comes a stage where you have to return. The clinic designed the program around gradual exposure to real life.

When selected for my first group excursion to Sandton City Shopping Center, I was thrilled because it meant I was progressing well. Scary, but I a nurse and other patients would come along too.

The journey there invoked no fear.

On arrival, I teamed up with the young girl who always called me her Tree and hugged me when anxious. Our personal mission was to take a ride on the escalator without having a panic attack, and if we succeeded, we’d do the elevator.

We held hands at the top of the escalator, oblivious to the stares of passers-by, counted one-two- three and stepped on.

That was the most thrilling ride of my life.

I’ll never forget the dopamine rush as we reached the bottom intact and laughed our heads off!

The elevator was a cinch after that!

We then joined the rest of the group at a coffee shop as arranged, chatted together and headed on home — to the clinic.

My next outing was to the cinema a fortnight later. I wasn’t too keen but knew the nurse was there in case a patient couldn’t bear sitting in a dark, closed space with other people.

I cannot recall the movie. But I remember the popcorn and the pride that I handled the setting without a drop of panic.

As the weeks progressed, after two day-trips (my partner had found us an apartment in northern Johannesburg near Sandton) then a couple of weekends at home, I was ready to face the world again.

Never to retreat.

The takeaway

The first question posed to me at my admission interview was if I’d ever considered suicide.

My answer was an emphatic “No! But I’m so scared of Life.”

Agoraphobia was the scariest thing that ever happened to me.

When I sense darkness looming, I look back at those times to marvel at my courage and commitment, my innate seeking of the Light, my deep desire to hang on no matter what.

I have not relapsed in twenty years and don’t intend to.

“One isn’t necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential. Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can’t be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.” — Maya Angelou

Thank you for reading.