Agoraphobia, Acting Out and the Aftermath

It was around October 2020 when I realised I had a serious problem, summer had came and went in a flash, the occasional walk or garden gathering with close friends wasn’t really something I couldn’t handle at the time. That would change, but for the time being I was still managing. I started back to uni in September, virtually of course, in the safety of my bedroom I would work, go to my uni classes and do two workouts a day. Ironically, I was in the fittest physical shape of my life, turns out the parallel between mental and physical health is a load of bullshit. Stay fat friends, it’s not worth it.

A month or two into my final year of uni the anxiety that I had kept shut outside of my house started to creep in like an invisiable toxic mist under the door. I was barely sleeping or eating, my legs were starting to tremble when I went on my previously safe walks and I constantly felt like I was going to wet my pants in front of everyone I met. There is nothing scarier in this world than fighting a mental battle with yourself. It’s like a bare knuckle fight against your evil twin, they know every next punch you are about to throw and they studied the defensive with you. How do you win a war against someone who was in the room when drew up the strategy?

I had gotten used to panic attacks when I left the house, the thing that kept me going was knowing I could rest when I got back to my fortress. When my fortress was overthrown I was at a complete and utter loss. I was running on high alert at all times, I felt like a stray dog who had lost trust in humanity. I had no where else to go and I broke, I took a panic attack one morning before I logged into work, I knew I needed to get help but I was convinced this could not be cured. After walking into my parents in the living room in tears, the only words I could get out were ‘I’m scared’, and I was scared, I was terrified of my own brain and body. They convinced me to call the doctor for help, I did it, mostly to give them peace of mind. After a 45 minute chat with one of the doctors, I was put on beta blockers. The equivalent to putting a plaster on a stab wound. There was no hope of getting a counsellor through the NHS for months so I used the university counselling services for someone to talk to. As I mentioned in my last post, I was a mental health novice, I had no idea just how bad the services available to people struggling were. I went in with hope and left angry and upset, after some research I’m sad to say this experienced is also confirmed by most others.

If I learnt anything in the first year of my battle with my brain it is that there is a huge difference between treating mental health and mental illness. Unfortunately,the professionals who I assume undertake various courses and qualifications to preach on them do not know the difference. If you are unlucky enough to have spent time with these people you will have also been advised to read a book, have a cup of tea or a bath to feel better about the fact you don’t think your life is worth living. I had so much trust in my counsellor that I almost believed the reason I had anxiety and depression was due to the fact my mum got rid of the bath for a larger shower. How could my own mother do this to me?

Unsurprisingly, after the 8 weeks with her were up I actually felt much worse than when I started. Not that it mattered, her job was done. To sum up, here are my issues with my first therapist:

1. 6-8 week sessions are not enough time to unlearn a life worth of built up habits and trauma.

2. Not everyone has a bath and some of us are lactose intolerant.

3. It’s only 20% my mothers fault.

4. Having a better week than last does not mean my session length should be cut in half.

5. Qualifications of the person taking the sessions should be posted to you beforehand, if I had know you only took a half day mental health course I would not have blamed myself for your advice not working.

So that was that, I was chewed up through the system and spat out the other side…for the first time. To give myself some credit, I kept fighting to get better. After arranging to start CBT in a few weeks I had hope again, told myself this would work, I would have the tools and techniques to live my life, I would be whole again. Spoiler alert for next week, it did not work, I did not gain tools or techniques and I lost the final piece of myself.