Inside

by Patsy Collins

Impatiently I circle the room, trying to invent things to do. I rearrange the already tidy books, alphabetically by title instead of by authors as they had been previously. The library service comes every month; they bring a selection of books to my door and ask what I would like next time.

"Anything, anything at all," I tell them.

The staff are always kind. They will sit and talk for a few moments. Sometimes they suggest books they think I will enjoy, or that might offer hope. I always accept the suggestions. These people would help me if they could; they do help, but cannot provide a solution. My own thoughts and behaviour keep me here. If only I could change the way I feel, the way I am, then perhaps I could find release. Instead, they provide books; I always read them regardless of style or subject. Reading passes the time, but not enough of it. I finished reading them two days ago. Oh how I long to be able to just stroll down to the library and exchange them. I must wait.

With the aid of a moist tissue, I gently polish the thick shiny leaves of my rubber plant. I support the tough leaf on my palm as I carefully wipe down from stem to tip. It will be days before it requires watering again. If only I was able to go into the garden and mow the grass. Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who wrote from Reading goal of "the little patch of blue that prisoners call sky"? A little patch of green grass on which I could go and stand; that is what I would call heaven. The feel of the sun, the rain, or the wind upon my face; before always taken for granted now almost forgotten. The seasons of the year come and go having no part in my life now.

I could look out of the window of course, but that is something I avoid doing. What does it matter if it is dry and bright? Why would I care if the wind howls? Snow or ice mean nothing to me, nor sweltering heat. It's all out there just beyond the kitchen door, but may as well be in some undiscovered valley surrounded by impassable mountain ranges. To me, that would make it no less accessible.

I comb my hair and check my clothing for stray threads or specks of dust. Keeping neat and tidy has become so important to me now. Oh, I realise there is no one here to appreciate my efforts but at least in my own mind I know I am sticking to some set of standards. No longer can I go out and select fashionable, flattering garments. Make-up is another daily ritual for me to perform. There seems little point whilst I remain in here but I will not neglect any detail that helps to raise my spirits, however slightly. More important perhaps is the fact that these things also fill time. A little powder and mascara are applied each day, lipstick and eye shadow are avoided though as I feel bright colour is inappropriate. As I apply the products my own image is reflected back to me. My actions mirror those of other women, those on the outside who 'put on their face' to brave the world. I need more than cosmetics to hide behind. A squirt of scent is the final touch; this place seems to have its own peculiar smell; closed and suffocating. Whether it is real or imagined I cannot say, however I do know that it is inescapable, at best covered with something sweeter. Today's choice is based upon violets, a comforting type of scent.

Perhaps I could write another letter? Is there anyone I can send one to yet? There is nothing new for me to write about. I have not been anywhere or done anything. If I have anything to say then I immediately write out reports to send to as many acquaintances and family members as I feel could be even the slightest bit interested. Sometimes I wonder how many of them are actually read. Older people are probably the most grateful recipients of my correspondence. The oldest and frailest rarely go out and will therefore like myself be bored and share my joy at any outside communication. Sadly arthritis or rheumatism makes the sending of replies difficult for many elderly people. The tedium of their lives in common with my own generates little in the way of potential content. Those with busy exciting lives lack the time for writing to others of their experiences. Leading a full interesting life ensures little conception of the pleasure a letter sent to someone in my position would bring.

My brother will come tomorrow, that at least is something to really look forward to, a visitor. Bless him he comes whenever he can, such a long way to travel, the location inconvenient. If I could move closer to him I would. Obviously an impossibility under current circumstances. My dear brother, the only member of my family who never critises me for my present situation. He understands no better than the rest, how could he when I don't myself? He never asks me again and again why I have brought myself to this. Never does he remind me of my life before. How sensible I was once, how cheerful. What a normal person I used to be, before. Not once has he questioned that small thing that went wrong in my mind leading me to this confinement. Maybe he doesn't wish to know. Blood is thicker than water; one day perhaps he too will find he loses control. Maybe he too will go from being a member of society to one of those forever inside kept away from life, from normal people.

Oh I am so bored shut up here in my prison. Prison! If only it were that simple. If I were a thief I could give back that which I had stolen. If I had lied I could confess and repent. If innocent and wrongfully convicted I could appeal for release. If guilty at least I would understand the reason for my captivity. One day my sentence would end and I would walk free.

The bars that hold me are not at the windows, but behind the frustration in my eyes. The locked door is not on a cell but between the neat little pearl earrings I wear. The key turned not in a heavy lock and thrown into the well but buried far, far deeper in my mind. My prison is not Holloway or Alcatraz, but Agoraphobia.

Yes, Agoraphobia. I know the name of my enemy now; perhaps that will help me defeat it. Lulu, one of the kind ladies from the library brought me a book on the subject.

"You did say you'd read anything at all," she reminded me. "I thought this might help."

I wasn't thrilled with the idea of reading about the suffering of others; didn't I have enough of that? I read the book though, just as she knew I would. I soon recognised myself in its pages. The descriptions of the racing heart, tremors, dry mouth and nausea almost brought a return of these symptoms. I hadn't realised they'd been brought on by my fear. All I'd realised was that they happened when I was away from home and surrounded by people. Travelling on the bus brought on the worst attacks; as I can't drive I simply stopped going out. At home I was safe from my pounding heartbeat, the pulse throbbing in my head and the urge to vomit.

It helped almost at once to realise that I wasn't peculiar; I suffered from a recognised condition. I was not alone, there are many young women who suffer. Men can suffer too, and older people, but most commonly the condition first occurs in women under 35. I learnt that I was unlikely to get free from my problem without help and that staying here, where I feel safe is just making me worse.

Although I had heard of Agoraphobia before I'd thought it was a fear of wide open spaces. Empty fields had never bothered me. I'd disliked crowded places, in shops or cinemas I'd felt trapped if I lost sight of the exit. This is perfectly normal, I read, if you're Agoraphobic.

Learning about the condition was interesting in a way, but the appeal of the book didn't end there. Several chapters dealt with treatment. There was hope that, with help and patience, I could recover. It wouldn't simply be a course of pills, although anti-depressants might help to control the symptoms, they wouldn't cure me. For that, I would need something called cognitive-behaviour therapy. It sounded alarming, but as I read, I began to see that it was actually all quite logical.

The first step was to talk to a therapist. Well I wouldn't mind that. It would be nice to have a visitor, the book said the therapy would be done somewhere I felt comfortable. For me that meant home visits, but other suffers might visit the therapist. There are different forms of Agoraphobia. Some people are fine in areas that are familiar to them; others can cope if they are with a person they trust. That makes sense to me. On days when I haven't felt so bad, I have been able to go for a short walk with my brother.

As I continue reading, I see that such walks could be part of my therapy. I don't know if I could do that now, it has been months since I went out. As I continue to read I come across case studies of sufferers. Their treatment and recovery are detailed. These people sound happy now, they have interests, jobs, relationships; all the things I long for. At the back of the book is a list of organisations to contact, phone numbers to call and suggestions of further reading. I've read enough, I want help now. I remember reading that people are often referred for therapy through their GP. Perhaps I could ring my doctor. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

Checking the front of the book, I see that the book is due to be collected tomorrow. It will be nice to see Lulu. She will, I'm sure, be pleased to learn that I found it interesting. I'm reminded of how I've often longed to walk into the library and make my own selections. What a joy that would be. Perhaps I would see Lulu there and she would know she had helped to make it possible.

Tomorrow, when she calls I will have something interesting to tell her. When I write letters, or speak to my brother, I will have news of my progress to relate. Recovery will not be quick, it probably won't be easy, but it is possible. I pick up the phone and take the first step toward freedom.

For further information you may like to contact - www.phobics-society.org.uk, www.nomorepanic.org.uk, www.triumphoverphobia.com