My nanna used to be a world traveller.
Her favourite destination was Egypt, with Paris running a close second.
Under her Christmas Tree she would place all the First Class goodies she would receive – untouched on her flight because she knew we loved them so – and us grandkids would fight to the death to score some airline toiletries.
Eventually over the years as her arthritis got worse – and lets be honest here, my grandfather preferred to have his endless stream of mistresses escort him – and she stopped travelling.
And then stopped leaving the house altogether.
I don’t know if it was a gradual thing or an event sparked it. I was, as all teenagers and then first time mothers are, too wrapped up in my own world to notice that the only time she left the house was to go to the fancy restaurant down the road once a week.
And then my grandfather started bringing her home a doggy bag or when he was overseas, they would deliver.
I was hurt when she wouldn’t come to my wedding. Not understanding that it wasn’t that she wouldn’t as much as she couldn’t.
I thought agoraphobia was a made up thing for movies and lazy people.
Or something to do with goats.
Turns out it is not.
I was supposed to go to an event in the city tomorrow.
A fancy restaurant for the launch of Nads new product.
(No, I was not asked to provide a link, nor am I being paid to do so)
I was really looking forward to seeing my friends and catching up with Moo and maybe even getting me some macarons.
And, you know, leaving the house for a change.
But as I realised that there would be no one there I knew,
That MPS couldn’t come with me (because OF COURSE MOTY will not babysit EVER)
And I would have to catch a bus and then a train…
All. By. Myself.
I couldn’t breathe.
My mouth was dry.
Kinda like how I feel if I have to go to the supermarket alone…
So I did what every other sane and rational person that doesn’t want to go to the doctor cause people will be there and the doctor might ask ‘how are you?’ and I might burst into tears and that would be SO FUCKING EMBARRASSING, I consulted Dr Google.
And Dr Googles old mate Mr Wikipedia informed me that PTSD and agoraphobia go hand in hand like potatoes and bacon, hot salty fries and a cold chocolate shake or a jar of Nutella and a soup ladle.
But in order to confirm Dr Google and his mate Mr Wikipedia’s expert diagnosis I have to leave the house and go to the medical centre where there will be people and a doctor that is TOTALLY going to ask ‘how are you?’ and cause I am out of valium that shit is just not going to happen.
It’s times like this I am totally jealous of Michael Jackson. Not for the dying and the weird skin condition and the pet monkey shit, but he had his own fucking doctor that made house calls and a theme park in his yard.