HOUSEBOUND

When it’s dark and dreary outside, you might wish you could see out the season from your sofa. But few of us can comprehend the reality of being too afraid to step outside your own front door. It’s a feeling Sarah Wood knows all too well

One woman’s struggle reveals the truth behind agoraphobia

Agoraphobia is a powerful thing. It can turn the most ordinary experiences, like a trip to the supermarket, into something petrifying, shrink the largest of worlds down to a room and rob joy from the most buoyant of personalities. Six years ago, I was chatty, creative and always looking for my next dose of fun. I worked as a receptionist in a secondary school and spent my evenings eating out in restaurants with my husband John or at my belly dancing class. If I was happy then, I only felt it more acutely when I became pregnant with my first child. But when the midwife placed my daughter on my chest, the responsibility I had for her little life overwhelmed me. I expected the anxiety to pass, but it only intensified. My friends and family thought I was living in this new-mother bubble, deliriously happy, but I became increasingly convinced that the outside world was a dangerous place. I believed that, if I left my house, I’d be outed as incompetent, my daughter would be kidnapped or I’d crash my car. At the thought of going out, my palms would sweat and my stomach would churn – I’d lose my appetite and I’d stop going to the toilet. When the time came to leave the house, I’d pace the living room, berating myself for being so weak. By the time my daughter was six months old, I couldn’t step outside without having a panic attack. So I didn’t. I became a master of deception. I’d take a few steps outside just to take a picture and post it on Facebook. John obliged without question when I asked him to pick up the shopping on his way home from work. My friends were happy to visit me at home and my parents, too, were oblivious to my shrinking world. The first time I had an idea of what I was going through, I was in bed, typing my symptoms into Google. I came across an article on the Mind website and, as I read it, my troubling thoughts began to feel legitimate. I told John how I’d been feeling and he drove me to hospital the next day. By then pregnant with my second child, I was diagnosed with post-natal depression, anxiety and agoraphobia. I was discharged and home visits with a CBT therapist were arranged. For the next six weeks, I noticed small improvements. But when the support stopped, I sank to a darker place than before. Only this time, the fear and shame was compounded by a profound sense of failure: I’d had help – I should have been feeling better. I felt so trapped by my thoughts that I became convinced that my family would be better off without me, and I contemplated suicide. It wasn’t until after I had my son that I finally got the help I needed. At the hospital for my son’s six-week check-up, I came clean to a doctor about how I was feeling. With my symptoms graded ‘severe’, I was prescribed antidepressants and started seeing a different therapist, who suggested I try exposure therapy. On the first week, I just had to get myself out the front door before I could go back inside; the next, I had to make it down the street. Panic attacks ensued. The day I reached the end of my road with John and the children, I felt breathless with fear. But once I was back home, I felt lighter. My worst fears hadn’t materialised. With time, I’ve learnt to trust the rational part of my brain. I won’t pretend I don’t feel anxious when I turn the latch on the door, but fear doesn’t stop me from doing any of those things any more. I’m even back at my belly dancing classes. Agoraphobia turned me into a prisoner in my house and my mind. But it hasn’t made me weak – it’s made me realise just how strong I am.