Making strides
Walking as an act of hope (and other cheesy thoughts).
🚨 Some of this is a Sad Ruby Story; references to abusive and dead parents. Also swearing. Reader discretion advised.
Last spring, in the wake of my mother’s death, a therapist – let’s call her Debbie – asked me how long I had suffered from agoraphobia.
This is what budget therapy gets you. Budget support. Debbie must have got me confused with another client, or, more likely, she simply wasn’t listening. The week before, she’d interrupted me bearing my soul to explain that it’s normal to feel guilty when someone dies, but that I needed to remember that it wasn’t my fault.
‘Sure, but what I was saying is that my mum told me it was my fault. She told me that the stress of having to come to my wedding is what gave her cancer.’ I repeated.
Pause.
‘Right. Well that’s a real shame.’
I should have cancelled our remaining sessions then and tried to get a refund, but I was in a bad way and any port in a storm etc. I couldn’t afford my (incredible, wonderful, so worth the money) past therapist, Adam, and I had been on NHS waiting lists on and off long enough to know that even if they decided my case was “urgent” I’d be waiting at least six months. Debbie was my Obi-Wan, my only hope.
But seriously, first the “shame” incident, now this?
‘Um, I don’t have agoraphobia. I actually love wide open spaces.’ I explained.
‘That’s not what agoraphobia is, Ruby,’ she tutted. ‘I think maybe the best use of our time now is for you to do some research. We’ll end it here, shall we? I’ll send you a link with your worksheet.’
‘We’ve still got ten minutes left, so—’ my phone buzzed with a notification.
‘I’ve sent that through, you can use those ten minutes to do the reading. Thanks, Ruby!’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Fuck you too, Debbie.
I stabbed at the link she’d sent, ready to have another outlet for all my anger, and read:
“Agoraphobia is commonly thought of as a fear of open spaces or of being in public. In actuality, it is the fear of any situation in which a person might experience panic. This could occur in open, public settings, enclosed areas, and, in rarer cases, any space outside a person’s home.”
Is there a word for feeling incredibly relieved and like a total idiot at the same time?
Over the ten years I’d lived in London, my panic attacks had escalated to the point where often I couldn’t even walk a minute to the local corner shop without breaking down. I would sometimes vomit with fear, and often shake or freeze, so that it felt impossible to take even a single step. My husband Phil had become my constant chaperone, but if you invited me to something, there was still only about a 20% chance I’d be able to get out of the house to come. If I did, there was always a risk that I’d end the night sobbing, too scared to leave the safety of friends or family to go back outside. Or else I’d up spending money I didn’t have on a taxi to my front door.
There was still no chance of me renewing my therapy-app therapy for another month, but this was a win for Debbie. Holy shit, Debbie! You cracked it!
I was about to write that getting a diagnosis or label for something is always a Good Thing. But I imagine there are times where putting a name to pain in no way improves how wrong and awful it is. But in this case, for me, a diagnosis of agoraphobia felt heaven sent. I called all my friends to give them the news. I was ecstatic.
Agoraphobia, unlike complex grief, was something I could handle. If my fear of going outside stemmed from a fear of what might happen when I got out there, I simply had to show myself there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. Bit by bit, I would take literal steps to tackle this agoraphobia and show it who’s boss.
So I signed up to walk 100 miles in May for Cancer Research UK, my reasoning being that on low days when I couldn’t muster the strength to walk for myself, I could do it to help combat the leading cause of death worldwide, and for my friends and family who were putting their hands in their pockets and cheering me on.
Taking advice from an online forum, I recorded myself in anxious states, talking to myself to help identify how and why my panic amped up and receded. I even posted some of it, thinking it might help me combat my shame and embarrassment. It sort of worked.
But there was a fatal flaw in my plan. While no place is perfect and you’ll find overly loud, rude and/or downright dangerous arseholes wherever you go, London’s population is nearing 9 million. So it stands to reason that there’s a higher concentration of arseholes living there.
It was a lot of stuff that might feel minor or inconsequential if you’re not in a panic state: sirens, revving engines, yelling, people shoving past me on tight pavements or walking so close behind me that I could feel their breath on my neck, thick crowds, cat-calling, groping, cyclists bombing it down canal paths where the only options for getting out the way are hopping in the canal or into nettles, the tube and – somehow twice in that month – people gobbing onto the floor in front of me. If I wasn’t already so on edge, I might have been able to handle most or all of it. Instead, all this served to prove my brain right, I was safer staying inside.
In the end I only managed 88 miles out of 100. But those lost 12 miles didn’t matter. The money still made it to Cancer Research, I managed to go on a load of walks with people I love, and I’d identified the real root/route of the problem: London.
There was no way of me teaching my brain that outside wasn’t a threat when every time I stepped outside I felt threatened. If I stayed, I would have to always, always have my shields up, or else continue to pay insane rent on a tiny house I never left.
So I moved to Edinburgh.
Obviously it wasn’t that simple, but I’ve already written way too much. The journey from London to Edinburgh started back in 2017, way before my agoraphobia diagnosis. A post for another day, perhaps. But for now: I’m walking again. I head out of my flat without a moment’s hesitation and into a beautiful, blooming, green city.
At the beginning of last year, I was so consumed by personal pain and grief that I had no physical or emotional resources to really care about others outside of myself, not in the way I knew I normally would. All my actions for others felt performative, all my compassion a ghost. Mostly I was angry and tired, so who cared if everything and everyone around me was on fire? I was cold.
In darker moments, I didn’t think it was possible for that to change, that the kinder parts of me had left with my mum. But the almost unbearably cheesy truth is that when I started walking, I found the strength to step outside of myself. Forcing myself to go outside day after day, even when I was terrified, gave me the momentum to reconnect with the world outside of my grief. Even better, it made me care again.
So now I’ve resolved to make it a yearly tradition. Each May, I will pick a charity then head outside and start walking, cycling, swimming – running feels a bridge too far, I hate running, but who knows? Maybe someday – for a cause. Whatever the mode of movement, I’ll always be trying to raise money and awareness for something bigger than myself. But it’ll also, selfishly, serve as a reminder to myself that there is hope and joy out there to find; I just need to stop standing still.
Resources
This year, I have chosen MAP (Medical Aid for Palestinians) as my charity. If at all possible, please consider donating. You can do so here.
From the river to the sea… other charities, grassroots organisations and actions you might consider:
Homes for Palestine: a petition to help Palestinian people obtain entry to the UK more smoothly, similar to the Homes for Ukraine scheme that has already been implemented.
Write to your MP: templates and resources here.
Check out Palestine Solidarity UK for news and events, and to find your local branch.
There are plenty of active voices on social media, but the first that come to mind for me are: Andrew Burt, Mindfully Radical, @n3ammannam_@greenpeaceUK .
Shop: Choose Love Mind Sunbula .
Absolutely loved this post. I too have agoraphobia and often can’t leave the house / come back home on my own. So I think I understand. I can certainly empathise.
Edinburgh is just lovely. I’m happy you began to feel your courage re-emerge there. 😊😊😊
I'm so glad you had a breakthrough and realised what you needed to do. But I wish your therapist could've told you verbally what she meant because the way she handled it by signing off early and sending you a doc would've made me feel the same! But... You had the breakthrough and moved, and I think I've walked down that path by the river too, and it's gorgeous!