I Have a Fear of Going Outside, and Social Distancing Is My Worst Nightmare

From Oprah Magazine

My small city has become a ghost town. As each home shelters families and individuals in an attempt to flatten the COVID-19 curve, Netflix is binged, dusty board games are pulled out of cupboards, and children have FaceTime chats with their grandparents instead of Sunday dinner.

I know what it’s like to be wrapped up in the embrace of four walls; I’ve spent much of my life huddled on my couch, a blanket as my cocoon from the outside world. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with agoraphobia, a type of anxiety disorder that often leaves you housebound.

The National Institute of Mental Health estimates that 1.3% of Americans experience agoraphobia at some point in their lives. Those of us who suffer from the disorder often find ourselves focusing on avoiding specific locations or places that might give us an anxiety attack. “The fear is focused on the anticipatory anxiety of the possibility of having a panic attack or panic symptoms,” explains Joshua Klapow, PhD, Clinical Psychologist University of Alabama at Birmingham School of Public Health.

I was first diagnosed with agoraphobia four years ago, when I started talking to my psychiatrist about my fear of driving. I’d experienced many panic attacks while trying to learn how to drive, and the anticipatory anxiety of getting behind the wheel prevented me from passing my driver’s tests. Last year, after a lot of therapy and anxiety medication, I passed my final driver’s test, and now I drive my three kids around every day. But agoraphobia still impacts many parts of my life. I typically avoid grocery stores, large crowded spaces, and lecture halls—and when I’m really struggling with my mental health, it can be hard to leave the house at all.

It’s only been two weeks since I started practicing self isolation during the coronavirus; I stay home unless I need to restock on food to fuel my ever-hungry three kids and husband. I’ve had family and friends who have commented that it must be easy for me to stay home, because it’s not that different from how I’ve lived before. But on the contrary, having agoraphobia and being forced to stay at home has actually triggered a new kind of panic for me.

What happens if I lose the gains I’ve made over my mental illness and spiral back into the clutches of agoraphobia? Before we went into self isolation, I’d wake up, make lunches, and get my children ready for school. I’d buckle them into their carseats, the pressure of the hard plastic on my fingertips grounding me. Then, I’d reverse my car out of my parking spot and drive the mile to our local elementary school. The sound of the van door sliding open reminded me that I was executing each of my tasks in the correct order. Once my two older kids were dropped off, I’d pull into my favorite coffee shop and order a tea. This was my reward for getting out of the house, and I could already feel a small spurt of joy as my hands wrapped around the warm take-out cup. I’d spend the day hopping from one task to the other so the anticipatory anxiety didn’t have time to take root; I knew where I was headed next, and didn’t have time to convince myself to stay home. I’ve worked hard the last few years to get the upper hand on this illness, creating a routine that feels almost as safe as the nest of my home.

Last week, I received notice that school and daycare would be cancelled for at least three weeks. Our routine turned to dust, as did my calm. How would I get outside without knowing the next right step? It wouldn’t be as easy as following the beautiful yet unrealistic family schedules posted by every Instagram mom. Since embracing social isolation, I’ve tried to maintain a sense of familiarity, but I can already feel myself sinking into the confines of my home. My warm bed doesn’t want to release me until my stomach is growling and I can no longer ignore it. As a journalist, I comfort myself with the tap-tap of my keyboard, working on breaking news stories. I connect myself by calling doctors in California and psychiatrists in Arizona, convincing myself that I’m getting a taste of the world through our conversations. But when I try to actually go outside, it becomes increasingly difficult; my legs feel like lead, and my brain comes up with a million excuses as to why I shouldn’t venture past my front door.

Having agoraphobia means that I’m constantly trying to remind myself that being outside isn’t as terrifying as my brain thinks it is. But the last few times I’ve been in public, it feels like everyone around me is barely containing their panic, too. The grocery stores are filled with hysteria and a palpable sense of urgency—people in my friendly town are even starting fist fights over toilet paper and stealing packages of meat out of each other’s carts.

Even going on a simple walk is challenging as I navigate proper protocol passing other neighbors walking by. Recently, I saw a woman hooked up to an oxygen tank going for a walk with her caregiver; she leaned in close to my toddler and smiled. I could practically see the respiratory droplets passing between them, and my throat seized as I shuffled along. Each day, there’s a new trauma outside my door, and I wonder when I’ll finally give in and succumb to the safety of my home.

Klapow confirms that it’s no surprise my anxiety disorder is ramping up now more than ever. “The collective stress, uncertainty, and fear surrounding the global pandemic is a likely trigger for those with anxiety disorders,” he says, before suggesting that anyone with an anxiety disorder, like agoraphobia, should be adherent to their medications, practice any grounding or cognitive therapies that they’ve learned, and stay connected with their therapists and medical team. Breaks from family members to recharge alone are also key.

These days, I’m afraid that instead of comforting me, the walls within my home will close in on me in a suffocating hold that won’t release me. This pandemic will one day be over, and those sheltering in their homes will stumble outside and breathe in the fresh air, relief washing over them. Men and women will return to work, and children will excitedly skip off to school. They’ll all begin recreating a new reality, adjusting to a life that might not feel as safe as it once was.

But what will happen to me, and others like me? We’ll have to start over. Once we get the all clear that going outside is safe again, we’ll have to first train ourselves to believe that it’s true.

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