I didn’t describe myself as an agoraphobe until six months ago. “Agoraphobe” sounds gross—eerily similar to “ogre,” but also sadly housebound. A depressed, housebound ogre. Doesn’t that sound so wonderful?
Boo Radley—the fictional reclusive character in To Kill A Mockingbird, created by author Harper Lee, a fellow recluse—initially was shadowed by the potential of his darkness, mystery, and predation. Later, after saving Scout and Jem, Boo revealed his true character: a good man, just plagued by agoraphobia.
Six months ago, I realized that I am a Boo Radley Bitch.
There are many misconceptions about agoraphobia, perpetuated by shitty representation in the media. “Agoraphobe” comes with negative associations: isolated; withdrawn; prone to addiction; neurotic, or worse—psychotic. The very word “agoraphobe” feels like an attack on one’s character.
As your resident Boo Radley Bitch, I can inform you that being an agoraphobic individual is not gross. Agoraphobia is simply a disorder—that I happen to have. While I admit it does make me somewhat isolated, neurotic, and a fan of self-medication, my phobia has never been a reflection of my character. Mental illness is never a reflection of one’s character. (Ableism has tricked us into thinking that being mentally ill and/or physically ill is a personality flaw. Ableism can go fuck itself).
To put it in perspective: agoraphobia is when your brain puts you on corona-virus-esque quarantine for no fucking reason at all. At-home self-quarantine, as per the brain’s orders. The panic that the average person feels during a pandemic is the average amount of panic I feel on a day to day basis just leaving my house.
For many privileged neurotypicals, there is nothing to survive on a regular day-to-day basis. But for a person with panic disorder with agoraphobia, leaving the home puts your body into a primitive state—like you’re gambling your chances at survival by simply leaving your porch. Fight, flight, or freeze. The amygdala takes no vacation days.
If I am forced to leave my home, my brain forces me to wake up early, with at least three hours of downtime before leaving the house—including time to make at least two lists, take an herbal tea that’s supposed to sedate me (but definitely doesn’t have any effect), take my prescribed benzodiazepine, smoke a CBD/THC ratio that I’ve nailed down to perfection, and then occasionally drink some wine or vodka (depending on how much time there is and the severity of the panic) to get out of my house and into the real world.
I had a therapist once tell me to rank regular activities on a scale from “1-10,” illustrated on a worksheet with a graphic of a thermometer, ten being the upmost anxiety, labelled, “No Way—I Can’t Do It!” in a childish and approachable font. She said that I should be pushing myself daily to do a “three or four,” but what she failed to understand was that I panic in my house—my safe space. The only time I’m lower than a three or four is when I am sleeping, unless I’m having an insomniac episode and sleep evades me, or I’m having a nightmare or a panic attack in my sleep—then I’m still hovering at a three or four, sometimes even a five in my own home. I am constantly in a state of panic.
About a month ago, I couldn’t make it to a memorial service for a peer. That night I shaved, planned my outfit, set my alarm clock for that morning, and day of, I physically could not show up. I kept thinking about who would be there, who would see me, how they would see me, how long I would be away from the house, where I should sit if I had a panic attack and needed to get outside inconspicuously, how quickly I could get home. Escape routes needed to be planned, mapped out like internal satellite.
Anxiety—termites leaving little pathways inside my brain and in my nerves, in my physical body. They leave maps of panic, how to leave, when to leave, signals of when you have to leave.
It is never quiet.
In October 2019, my body shut down. Termites had completely eaten away at my insides. They had been in the process of hollowing me out since that March, when I had the incredible opportunity to start working at a company that I really enjoyed working at. I had my period the week I started. Immediately after starting the job, I did not have a period for ten months. My hair frayed out like burnt wool. I couldn’t remember texts, emails, conversations, names, dates.
When you’re in a state of constant fight or flight, your brain’s last priority is reproduction, keeping your hair and skin nice, or remembering shit. It’s about survival.
My doctor put me on medical leave that October.
Currently, I am on disability through the state of California because of my panic disorder with agoraphobia. When my doctor (psychiatrist) put me on medical leave, I was ashamed to be considered “disabled.” I had internalized the stigma of being an agoraphobe, the stigma of not being considered a “productive” member of capitalist society. I can’t sleep, leave the house, or eat like a functional human being. What do I have to offer?
Agoraphobia is simply a disorder I just happen to have.
Does it mean leaving my porch is scary? Yes. Does it mean that sometimes when I go for a neighborhood walk, I can only make it two blocks and then I have to turn around? Yes. Does it mean that literally any Trader Joe’s parking lot has the ability to instigate an immediate panic attack? Yes. Absolutely yes.
But does it mean that I don’t have anything to give? No. Absolutely not.
Regardless of my mental and physical afflictions, I am an invaluable individual. I am Boo Radley Bitch. I am a good person, who happens to have agoraphobia. Agoraphobia is not dirty, gross, ugly, or evil—it just is a phobia of being outside of a perceived “safe space.” And as an individual, I have a fuck ton to give. Granted, it has to be given from my safe space. But I do have a fuck ton to give.
I’m a Boo Radley Bitch, and I’m here to talk about mental illnesses, to educate, to uplift, and to connect. I have a lot to give, even if it’s from the confines of my mental illness and the perimeter of my home. I’m here to spread some Boo Radley goodness!