Agoraphobia

Before the Peak

The term "agoraphobia" is a combination of the Greek words "agora" (meaning "large, public place") and "phobia" (meaning "fear") and was originally used to describe an abnormal fear of being in open areas often resulting in the sufferer becoming housebound. Agoraphobia usually struck people who had a history of panic disorders or other mental illnesses. It was not contagious and could be treated with medication and counseling.

On May 1st news outlets started reporting cases of an all-NEW type of agoraphobia. Sufferers, with no history of mental illness, would start to feel increasingly anxious until they would go home. Then they would become "stuck" there. If they were forced to leave, they would faint or lie on the ground, trembling with intense fear. At first, the news reports were not treating it as a 'crisis' because the disease (or whatever) was still extremely rare, non-fatal, and didn't appear to be contagious. The CDC didn't even call it a 'disease'. They gave it the name 'Spontaneous Agoraphobia Syndrome'.

Unlike other diseases, there was no "ground zero". No particular place or country was harder hit than any other place. And the symptoms were not always the same. Some people were 'trapped' in their homes, while others couldn't leave their beds or a particular room.

Agoraphobia was so rare in the beginning that it had no impact on my life until May 12th. On that day I was making a sandwich in the kitchen.

"Valerie!" I shouted, leering disapprovingly at my little sister who was sitting at the dinner table. "You mixed the jelly with the peanut butter again!" I lowered my voice and narrowed my eyes. "And what makes it SO wrong is you don't even know WHY it's wrong."

Valerie ignored my scoldings and continued to eat her PB&J.

Our father, who was thumbing through a ThinkGeek catalog, looked up: "Samber, I love you, but I think the stick up your butt has a stick up its butt."

Valerie giggled. Dad smiled. I was not amused.

"The stick reference sh—"

"Help!!" screamed my mother hysterically through our loft door. She was pulling the knob and frantically ringing the doorbell. "It won't open! HELP!!"

My mother was strong, forthright, and assertive. She was not easily frightened or intimidated. And I'd NEVER seen her hysterical. Not when our car broke down and caught fire. Not when my sister fell and broke her leg. Not even when an owl flew through our loft's open window and started pooping on everything. (In each of those instances, my sister and I were hysterical, but not Mom.)

My father opened the loft door, and my terrified mother scrambled inside.

I assumed whatever horrible thing had put MY mother in such a state was hot on her heels. I took it upon myself to shut and lock the door. I grabbed a chair and looked out the peephole. (I couldn't imagine a "normal" thing making my mother hysterical. A huge rabid dog, for example, wouldn't be enough. My imagination drifted into the realm of flesh-eating blobs and mutant land-sharks before I could think of something capable of rattling my mother so completely.) I peered through the peephole and saw nothing but an empty hallway.

My mother quickly recovered.

"What's wrong?" my father asked.

"I... I don't know," she answered.

That was the first time I'd ever seen anyone turn agoraphobic.

She was able to move any place in our home, but couldn't leave the loft. She was diagnosed with "Apartment Agoraphobia".

Doctors could do nothing for Mom. But they suggested she attempt to leave the loft at least once a day. For the first three days, she did. With infinite trepidation, she'd take a step past the door frame. But, immediately, her breath quickened, and her body shook. The veins on her neck pulsated. Her eyes went wide, face twisted with intense fear. Flushed and sweaty, my mother would stumble back into the loft, looking spent.

After the third day, she stopped trying. I didn't need to ask her why.

Agoraphobia continued to spread randomly.

By May 28th, 1% of the world had become agoraphobic.