Even as I worked, I could feel it moving in, circling more tightly around me, focused and unswerving, like a wild animal sure of its prey.
Cold sweat began to moisten my forehead. In slow motion, my hands went on with the business of unpacking the boxes piled in the room. Keep working as if nothing is happening, I told myself. Maybe it will go away.
Earlier that October morning in 1980, in the thin light of dawn, my son Bryan and I had moved from the house we’d rented into this apartment. Then he had left for high school. I was alone now, trying to organize the cartons and furniture.
With numb fingers I shoved and tugged at a heavy box of appliances. The panic, the fear of losing control of my fear, circled closer. My heart drummed. I began to pant and tremble. An unpleasant floating sensation rippled through me.
Walking with care, as if on a cliff’s edge, I made my way to the front room and leaned against a window frame. Only a half-block away I could see the house we’d had to move from because it was to be torn down.
If I could just go back there and sit on my old porch, just for a few minutes, I know I’d calm down, feel safe again.
But suppose you get out on the street and start screaming hysterically?
Right now, my throat dry, I was trying to swallow the urge to do exactly that.
What if the neighbors hear you?
Upstairs I could hear the bustle of normal everyday family activity—a vacuum cleaner prowling, the squeals of small children playing games.
They’ll think you’re a mental case.
But I’m not, I’m not!
I knew what the name for my trouble was: agoraphobia, a chronic state of fear. But who out there had ever heard of agoraphobia? That was one of the problems. People didn’t know that other people suffer from it. And doctors hadn’t found a standard form of treatment.
Push, pull, push, pull. I wanted to run, but fear weighted my feet. The conflict tore at me. It seemed I had two brains: a weak one, well-intentioned, fighting for sanity and self-control; a stronger one, hell-bent on destruction, inviting stress and negative thoughts.
My whole being felt like a battleground. At any minute I might be blown apart.
Ever so carefully, I began to creep toward the bedroom. The room tilted. With the last of my physical strength I made it to the bed and, exhausted, I slept.
When I awoke, a few hours later, the immobilizing panic was gone. But it had been replaced by tension. I turned onto my back and began counting out the breathing pattern that Dr. Leaman, a psychotherapist I’d consulted briefly, had taught me. Inhale one-two-three, hold one-two-three, exhale one-two-three.
If only I had the money to go back to Dr. Leaman. The four sessions I’d had with him had helped me, but I simply could not afford to go on seeing him.
I thought back to what Dr. Leaman had told me about agoraphobia. “The dictionary calls it ‘fear of open spaces,’” he said. “But agoraphobia is much more than that. It starts with anxiety—the kind anybody can feel about something like missing a train, going to the dentist, job pressure, an argument, an unfamiliar situation.
When stress builds up, certain people—especially tense people who tend to be perfectionists—may experience sudden panic. The symptoms make them feel as if they’re going crazy. They begin to be afraid of panicking—losing control—and embarrassing themselves in public.
So they gradually stop going places where they expect to feel anxious. They don’t know that agoraphobia is primarily a conditioned body response—a behavior disorder that can be unlearned—not a mental illness.”
Dr. Leaman was just beginning to help me unravel my snarl of fears and taboos and develop relaxation techniques when the visits became too much of a financial burden for me to carry. Now I was trying to cope with my problem alone again, and losing the battle.
Our moving had triggered another attack of anxiety. I glanced nervously at my watch. Soon Bryan would be home, and I didn’t want him to find me cringing in the bedroom with nothing accomplished.
My whole timetable was rigidly aligned with my son’s schedule. I felt terror when he left for school, safe again at supper; terror if he went out at night with friends, safe at bedtime because he was home; then I’d lie awake, brooding about the agony that would begin again in the morning.
Bryan had to accompany me anywhere I went (never beyond the limits of our town). I didn’t dare visit relatives in nearby communities for fear of losing control, of panicking and maybe passing out. The same fear made me dread going to stores, seeing friends.
Even mailing a letter at the corner box was an ordeal. Anything that represented a potential delay in getting back to the sanctuary of home—lines at checkout counters, traffic jams—had to be avoided. A job was out of the question.
I got up wearily and went back to the unpacking chore, still thinking about what a burden I’d become to my children. I’d been divorced in 1969 and the agoraphobia syndrome had begun in 1972.
Increasingly, over the years, my older child, Brenda, and Bryan had accommodated their outgoing lives to my ingoing one. Recently, Brenda had had to choose between going away to college and staying home with me. Though she’d gone off to school, I knew she felt guilty.
That left Bryan alone to cope with a nearly housebound mother. I dragged a heavy chair into a corner. Just like Bryan has to drag you around, my mind nagged.
That night, over supper, I asked my son the ritual question, hating myself. “Staying home tonight?”
Eyes on his plate, he shook his head. “Nope, Cary asked me over to do homework and listen to his new records.”
We both knew why Cary—or any of Bryan’s other friends—was never invited to our house. I was too afraid of having a panic attack.
When Bryan got home I was in bed, but still awake. I listened to the welcome sounds of his presence—the refrigerator door opening and closing, water running—and to the unwelcome, whining voice in my mind: Soon he’ll be leaving home to find his way in the world like any young man. What will you do then?
I did not dare let myself weep aloud. If I gave in, I might go crazy. Instead I sat up on the edge of my bed, hugged myself and rocked back and forth as tears trickled slowly down my cheeks.
Then, for the first time since my teen years—when I’d become convinced that God didn’t love me—I found myself talking to Him instead of myself. I didn’t say His Name, and the words were an ultimatum, bitter and angry. Either let me get well, or let me die and have peace.
During the next weeks, Bryan and I finished unpacking and getting the apartment in order. The nights he went out, I tried to keep my mind occupied by crocheting. And often, when anxiety began to build up, I “prayed” my ultimatum. Heal me or take my life.
One day in early November an article appeared in our local paper, The Record Herald, about agoraphobia research at the Pittsburgh Institute. Phobics were interviewed, but most didn’t want their identities revealed.
Small wonder. Who wanted to risk being ridiculed—or having your family feel ashamed of you?
But at the same time, I felt a desperate urge to speak out. Agoraphobia was an affliction, not a crime. Impulsively, I took out a box of stationery and began to write a letter to the editor.
I admitted to being agoraphobic, encouraged him to publish similar articles, thanked him for the space, and signed my name.
Then, for two days, the envelope lay on my desk. I was having second thoughts. I could well understand why the interview subjects had chosen to remain anonymous.
The third morning, after Bryan had left for school, I sat down at my desk and picked up the letter. I wanted so much to mail it! Still holding the envelope, I let my head sink forward onto my folded arms.
The mailbox was only a few steps away from the house … I drew a shaky breath as my skin began to prickle.
In the far corners of myself I felt a stirring. Was it starting up again … the panic?
“God.”
The name exploded from my lips like a cork under pressure. And then the words poured out. “God, I’m so alone unless You’re there to help me. I need You to be in control of my life because I can’t be. and I can’t go on tormenting myself and my family this way.
"I’ve been talking to myself for all these years and it hasn’t done any good. From now on I’m talking to You … You’re in charge of everything. The fear, the panic, the whole mess that I can’t handle …”
Minutes ticked by. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I went out and mailed the letter.
Within two days it was published. That same evening, my phone rang. The caller said her name was Linda. She had read my letter and located my name in the phone book. “I’m agoraphobic, too,” she told me. Then, hesitantly, “Do you think we could help each other?”
Oh, God, thank You, thank You.
Linda and I decided to try to find out if there were others nearby like us. I called the Record Herald correspondent and asked if I could write another letter including my phone number.
After checking with her editor, she told me, “Yes, you can write another letter, but we’d like to do a story on you instead. How about it?”
Panic? Oh, yes! But I agreed to the interview. Then I wavered as the time for it drew close. Was it the right thing to do? I prayed again, asking God for just one more phone call so I would know if it was His will.
One hour after that special prayer, I received a second call—from Frieda. Then, as if God were giving me an extra measure of reassurance, I had a third caller—Judi—the same evening!
When the reporter came, she was compassionate and the interview went well. My third caller, Judi, had agreed to allow her name and number to be given in the story, and this took a lot of pressure off me. And calls did begin to come in steadily.
Whoever telephoned Judi got a follow-up call from me and vice versa. How we buzzed the telephone wires those first few weeks! And how I prayed!
I met Barb on the phone too. She, Judi and I took the initiative in meeting at Judi’s home to get acquainted in person and decide what we wanted to do.
On the evening of December 1, 1980, two months after my terrifying move, five strangers came together, frightened but excited. The success of that meeting led Barb to search out a room we could use to meet in on a regular basis. She found one at the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Waynesboro.
About 10 of us gathered at the church one cold night, while our families waited in their cars outside. Every one of us wanted to run away the minute we pulled into that parking lot, but every one of our little group managed to sit still in a strange room for 90 minutes.
That night, the Friends of Phobics was formed, and I supplied our motto: As God Ordained, Reach All People, Help Other Beings In Conflict.
Afterward, my son drove me home and I was so “up” that it scared me. I had forgotten how to feel good about anything! I prayed again, telling God that He was in control of whatever was to be, and again placed my life in His hands.
And He did work, drawing our group of new friends close, into a family. I was sure of His blessing because in time more contacts came about; when a need or question arose, it was somehow answered by a magazine or newspaper article or a personal experience shared by one of our members.
Information flowed in, public interest took hold, and we had several guest speakers from the psychiatric field—including Dr. Leaman—at little or no cost.
As a result of our meetings, we learned to trust each other, to express our feelings, cry together and laugh at ourselves. Yes, we can actually laugh! It’s fantastic.
Naturally the group hasn’t “cured” us. But we no longer feel helpless, or that we are fighting this hideous fear alone, trapped in our own private hells. We are armed with knowledge and the security of a support system.
How wonderful it is to pick up the phone and call a sympathetic fellow sufferer when we feel distress or want to share a triumph. (Who else could understand so well the victory of a successful shopping trip in a previously feared store, or a walk downtown alone?)
Our membership has grown to 75 people. Some of us have appeared on local TV, and affiliated groups have been formed in nearby Hagerstown, Maryland, and Chambersburg. Pennsylvania.
As for me, my eyes are not glued to the clock anymore, timing Bryan’s arrivals and departures. I am not glued to a chair for evening after evening of anxiety and crocheting.
I have learned to drive alone. walk short distances alone, go into large stores (very quickly), and even spend nights alone occasionally. Medication—a mild antidepressant and muscle relaxant—is helping me, too.
I still have panic attacks now and then, but by talking to God I’ve learned to let Him help me handle them. I feel reborn, spiritually and psychologically.
I thank God for so many things, but most of all I thank Him for helping me walk to the corner mailbox.
Or did He carry me?
Download your FREE ebook, A Prayer for Every Need, by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale.
