So. I finally broke down last night and contacted the Central Florida Mental Health Association. I wrote in an email that I had been dealing with agoraphobia for about 5 years now and I wanted to finally get some help with it.
I’ve tried support groups, agoraphobic facebook groups. No one seemed to want help, they just wanted to use their agoraphobia as a crutch to make them interesting, I suppose. Reason? Comments were always, “I can’t live the house,” and not enough, “I want to leave the house.”
I’ve spent countless blog posts discussing my own issue with agoraphobia, to make some sense of it. Because I can’t identify when it began or why….It was just suddenly a reality: I was terrified, of not just going outside, but of the world and the people in it. I woke up three years into agoraphobia realizing I was agoraphobic. It had been three years since I had left my home for more than 20 minutes a day. So, I started writing about it as best I could.
And writing about it is interesting. I tend to think you’re in that golden place of writing where every word you’re scribbling down is intended for YOU as the writer to read first, what YOU as the scribe need to hear first. Some other side of yourself is saying things about you better than you ever could.
Publish it later, or not. It isn’t the point. You were being honest with yourself as a person. Your soul was demanding you take note of something about yourself that needs honest discussion. And that is a great place to be in as a writer.
However, the best rebuttal to honesty is honesty. I could write about agoraphobia all day long, blog post after blog post.
But, I need to start talking to someone qualified to handle a mad man knitting.
So, I contacted an organization and now I have a list of referrals.
I am not at my worst at the moment. I’m eager to venture on foot to a therapist. I would not have done that a few months ago. Maybe I’m just contrarian by nature. The world says, “You should get out more!” I scream, “Get off my lawn!” Now the world has changed. “Stay in place, shelter. Do not leave your home unless essential.” To which I’m apt to go, “Screw you, I wanna go dance to gothic industrial music at Barbarella.”
So, I’m not at my worst….but, I’m also not at my best. Because I’m terrified. I’m terrified about what I may have to talk about in any kind of real, honest therapy. I know those discussions are imminent…. all those memories hat I pushed beneath the surface, buried way down deep, pushed to the deepest, darkest part of our primitive mud.
I buried those memories of hurt, resentment, and malice so deep, because they weighed me down, wouldn’t let me get out of the mud myself. So, I sacrificed those them just so I could survive.
Here I am, now being forced to look at those memories that I suffocated as ghostly specters, come back to haunt me. Each and every one of them with their own grievances. And I am terrified of having to look at an army of bad memories all glaring at me in the face, demanding that I look them all dead in the eye and recognize them….covered in mud.
So, yeah. I worry about that.
Which is probably why it has taken so long for me to finally ask for some professional help.
But, I think I’m ready. Wish me luck.
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