Last year, I sat across from a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with agoraphobia. The word sounded foreign to me; almost funny. But agoraphobia is far from funny. It?s a serious and sometimes debilitating mental illness?and according to my doctor, I have it.
The first signs of agoraphobia began to appear when I was in university. I?d spend long, leisurely days at home under the soft crocheted blanket my mother had made me. I didn?t leave my house for days, existing on food scrounged from the fridge, or takeout. I created a haven of quiet and solace that nobody else could penetrate.
At the time, I just thought I was introverted, a private soul who needed the comfort of four walls surrounding me. I didn?t know anything about panic or anxiety, and I definitely hadn?t heard the word ?agoraphobia? before. I?d grown up in a family that didn?t discuss mental illness, despite the fact that it?s part of our family history. For years, I lived this way. I went to school, work and church, but I didn?t really breathe until I was safely inside my home.
I met my future husband at 19; his extroverted nature and desire to be outside in the world helped me to challenge myself more. We got married and had two children, and I managed to function fairly well as a young wife and mom. But in 2015, a series of traumatic events challenged my mental health. Shortly after my children turned three and one, my brother died of a massive heart attack. Months later, I was faced with the decision to come for...