Agoraphobia, pt. 1

So a few months ago I asked my therapist, who specializes in exposure therapy for people with phobias, after a year of seeing her, what my diagnosis technically is. Enquiring minds want to know. Because it never occurred to me to ask before, and maybe it wouldn't feel so big and vague and shadowy if it had a name and a shape and a classification. Every Tuesday is like a rapid download of the prior week's events and how I'm coping with them, so I am distracted from the "business" of being a mental health client and forget these important questions like "What is actually wrong with me?"

We have a script, where we each read the same lines at 5:01pm every Tuesday as she walks me into her office.

Therapist: "So how's it going?"
Me: "You know me, it's always something."
[we both laugh]

And it is always something. Because life only seems to stop for the 54 minutes I'm in her office. The rest of my week, the other 10,026 minutes, are a blur. I measure my week and keep track of the day by where I was the night before. Did I go to therapy last night? Okay, today is Wednesday. Which means I'm going to Nottingham tonight. Which means I'm going to Dover on Friday night. Do I have plans for the weekend yet? Will I have time to do laundry tomorrow night? Fuck it. I'll do it ___________ (I rarely do). Do I have food in my house? I should stop and get cat food/seltzer/toilet paper/gelato. I'll do it tomorrow on my way home from ___________ (I rarely do). Must make sure I balance my checkbook on Sunday morning because I know the day will get away from me and I won't do it and then I'll be worried all week. I should probably vacuum. I'll do it before I go to Dover Friday night. I wonder how my sister's doing. I need to try to remember to text her. Shit. How many more paychecks until rent is due?

It's a rare and exceptional moment when time stops for me. Because shutting off my brain is a herculean feat. "Hyper-vigilance, hyper-awareness, and racing thoughts are symptomatic of ADD, and really common in people with anxiety." I typically need some kind of physical experience to pull my essence out of my head and down into my body. "Exercise is really important to help control your anxiety; when is the last time you went to the gym?" I make excuses, change the subject, or just don't give a shit, depending on what happened the other 10,026 minutes.

Agoraphobia: Greek for "fear of the marketplace." I am quite sure the ancient Greeks had not considered what the marketplace would look like in 2013. The intersection of Route 108 and Route 101. Central Avenue at Locust Street. Henry Law Park on July 4th. Market Square. Ocean Boulevard from Memorial to Labor Day. The Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom. My last time at The Casino was August, 2011 for Social Distortion. Full-blown panic attack. Puked my guts out the second I got home. Never saw Mike Ness set foot on stage. Flashback to The Casino in August, 2005. Ray Lamontagne. I had just successfully completed my second nervous breakdown. This concert was my birthday gift from my mom. I was so scared that when Ray finally took the stage I cried, out of relief, out of grief, out of frustration, out of joy. I survived to meet Ray and get his autograph that night. He looked more scared than I felt. He's also not very tall, in fact, he's probably my height. But, oh, that whispery voice of his.

Earlier tonight. Lyle Lovett at The Casino. A longtime favorite of my mom's and mine; she's seen him nearly every year that he comes - this was to be my first. I was up against a hard deadline at work and running late. I was anxious and irritable. What if I panic and have to leave? I nearly cancelled about five times in as many minutes after too many text messages back and forth with mom about the fact that I was running late. What if I panic and have to leave? We get there, find parking Fucking Ocean Boulevard Fucking Tourists, get inside, and now the essentials: food, water, seats that feel safe. What if I panic and have to leave? Mom took approximately 45 seconds too long coming back with my soda water with lemon and my stomach was clenched like a fist. I turned to look for her and she was at the bar, paying for our drinks. Okay, I can endure three minutes, forty-five seconds of discomfort while knowing she is nearby. A cocktail waitress stopped at my table, where I was sitting entirely alone, in the back, near the door, for safety, and asked me if I was okay. She is asking if I need a drink. I answer that I am okay. Woah. I really am okay. Mom came back and I went to buy a tee-shirt and returned very happy with a tee-shirt of Lyle on a pony on a boat. Then the lights went down, and Lyle and the band took the stage. Four bars into the first song and I am bursting with tears. I cry out of relief, out of grief, out of frustration, out of joy. I cry because my hands shook while I ate seven-dollar nachos and I cry because his voice is so beautiful that it breaks my heart. I cry because I'm missing my best friend and wishing she was here and I cry because I am at an actual concert in a room full of a few hundred people and I am okay. We even sneak our way up to seats very close to the stage, where I dance in the aisle, and my mom dances, and I am grinning.

My official diagnosis is Agoraphobia with PTSD and Panic Disorder. Tonight, when I was dancing and singing along, time stopped and my essence was pulled out of my head and into my body, and I was okay.