Agoraphobia

Unalive

It never used to be this bad.

It used to be manageable. 

A shorter black haired man walked down the street, feet dragging and eyes down cast. His shoulders were rounded inwards with arms crossed over his chest, an uneasiness to him.

It used to be easy when he was a kid. 

He hadn't even seen it coming.

How could someone change like this?

He held a death grip on the straps of his backpack. The bag held items of comfort for him, like his fidget toys, a smooth marble that could fit in the palm of his hand and exactly three tissues. It held medication as well and a medical card, in case he couldn't function enough to give himself his medicine.

He used to be brave.

He used to never back down from any challenge.

A crushing feeling swelled in his chest, like too much air set to burst his heart, when his foot came too close to a crack. He nearly stumbled in order to avoid it, tears prickling his eyes and breath picking up as he tried to keep calm.

It wasn't always like this.

He had friends. 

He left his house regularly.

He gave some rowdy kids on top a car a wide berth when he needed to pass. His heart nearly exploding when they yelled for him to stop. He begged any higher power that they wouldn't follow. He didn't know what he'd do if he had to interact with them.

He was once a hero to a girl.

She said he was courageous.

She once liked him.

The migraine from this morning, that never truly went away, came back when the kids started shouting in his direction. He ran, panic taking over as he dashed towards a crowd crossing the street. He was drawling blood in crescent divots from the force of his grip on his bag straps. His vision becoming blurry from panic as he neared the large group of people.

He was once liked by his friends.

He even had a family.

The pressure in his head became more unbearable the closer he came to the edge of the sidewalk. His breaths becoming more ragged, not from exertion, but from so many people without faces looking in his direction. The weight of their judgmental faces crushing him. He was quickly overwhelmed the second his personal space was touched.

He once had a bright future.

He once excelled in things.

People crowded him. People touched him and he felt nauseous. His heart beat was a humming bird's wings and his mouth was a waterfall as he tried to not choke on his saliva. His breath heavy as he struggled to stay conscious. The voices around him morphed into one continuous noise and it echoed through his hollowing chest.

It had been six months since he last saw a living person face to face.

It had been a year since he last left his apartment.

It had been years longer since he last talked to anyone he had known. 

Accept for one person.

His therapist, whom he stopped speaking with recently, had told him that his panic disorder and OCD was becoming unmanageable; it was morphing. She had said that their sessions over the phone weren't going to cut it, that he needed to come into her office. Said he was going to need to push himself.

Being alive was pushing himself enough as it was.

He stopped answering her phone calls over a week ago.