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"I can do this," I repeated to myself for the umpteenth time, zipping up the boots that I'd gotten weeks ago and never worn outside. "I can do this."
I thought the new clothes would serve me like armor, suiting up in a false persona that would mask the broken person I felt I was underneath. My credit card took a staggering hit as I splurged on a new winter jacket, army green, and brown leather boots. I'd curled my hair to perfection whilst painting a face on my features that looked nothing like my own. Eyebrows perfect, eyeliner on point, even the curve of my lips looked foreign to me beneath the immaculately applied liner and lipstick.
That was the point. I didn't like who I was, so I decided to become someone else.
"Riley? Are you ready?" My boyfriend's voice echoed through our small two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, a home I was still certain we couldn't afford, and a shot of fear stabbed through me.
Was I ready? Could I do it?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stood up and straightened my clothing before adjusting a knit hat over my brown curls. My armor was complete. My heart was racing in my throat, slamming against my ribcage like a jackhammer as each step took me closer and closer to the thing which I feared most. Bile rose in the back of my throat, burning at my esophagus, but I forced it down. I tried to pretend that my hands weren't shaking from fear, but from excitement. From the anticipation of the crisp New York City breeze that I knew would whip my cheeks into a cherry-colored frenzy the moment I stepped outside.
"Babe," my boyfriend, Levi, brushed my shoulder with the tips of his fingers, and I jumped a mile into the air. "You okay?"
I nodded, afraid to grant my lips permission to speak out of fear that a slew of words would crawl out. Words that I didn't want to acknowledge. Words that I refused to grant credence.
I'm not okay. I can't do it. I won't do it. Please don't make me. I'm afraid. Please. Stop. I don't want to. I'm afraid. I'm not okay. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared.
Forcing my feet forward, I stared at the heavy wooden door that separated me from the outside world. I'd spent the last eight months hiding behind it, refusing to step beyond the threshold for fear that my demons would seize me the instant I went outside. I didn't want to leave my safe zone, the haven I'd built for myself in my mind that took the form of the walls of our apartment.
I'm twenty-two years old. I have severe panic disorder with agoraphobia.
It started when I was seventeen with panic attacks. They were debilitating, rendering me effectively useless as a human being for hours at a time as my body recovered from the feeling of impending death, but I forced myself to cope. I wanted to graduate high school, to enjoy all that life had to offer.
I wanted to be normal.
My mom encouraged me to try therapy, where I learned coping mechanisms and was prescribed with SSRI antidepressants. I was told to think of anxiety like a wave - something that comes and goes - and, instead of fighting against the current, I should relax into it. Let it happen and let it slowly, and inevitably, disappear.
