Madeline

Trauma manifests in ugly, uncomfortable ways. One of the most unexpected ways my grief has presented since Oliver died is in the form of agoraphobia. Which has been truly unexpected, because while I love being at home with my pets, I also have always loved going out, seeing my friends. spending time out and about.

After Oliver died, that changed. It changed so quickly I felt like I had whiplash.

I started to retreat into myself as soon as I learned he didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. In that moment, I remember clutching my stomach and curling into myself while the doctor and ultrasound tech both hugged me and cried with me. I immediately felt terrified over the thought of having to call anyone and tell them what happened. The doctor, bless her, called my husband. I remember when I got home, my mother in law and father in law were at my house with my husband, and I couldn’t look at them. I had a hard time meeting my husband’s eyes, even.

It’s like my brain shut off in an attempt to protect itself. Over 6 weeks later, it still hasn’t come back on.

When we were admitted to the hospital and got the induction started, I didn’t want to see anyone who wasn’t my husband or my sister. That included any family or friends, even my parents. I was so overwhelmed and sad and confused. I knew I couldn’t hold a conversation with anyone else. I had only been in the hospital for a few hours and I was already so overwhelmed with the number of people in and out of my room. I was never alone and therefore, was never able to retreat into my mind and process the enormous loss I had just been presented with.

I didn’t want to see anyone immediately following my discharge from the hospital, either. Not only was I recovering from a c section and physically in pain, but I had to come home from the hospital after I delivered my son, knowing he was left behind and would never walk through those doors with me. Mentally, I was very unwell. I still am.

People visited. Some came in for a few minutes to say hi, others just dropped meals or gifts or flowers off at the door and left. My phone was constantly going off with messages of sympathy and love. Responding to those texts was easy, it was fine, because I could take my time in formulating a reply. I didn’t have to respond immediately, or at all if I didn’t want to.

As time went on and I realized I didn’t have to talk to anyone or see anyone if I didn’t want to, I started avoiding people altogether. I have left the house a hand full of times since July 18 when I was discharged. I went out to dinner for a friend’s birthday. I’ve gone to coffee shops to sit and write. I’ve been to my mom’s house once, my mother in law’s once. My husband and I took a weekend trip away to the North Carolina mountains.

Without fail, every single time I come home from being out like in the instances above, I crash. I have a terrible few days after. Those days are the hardest to get out of bed. After learning that not so fun fact about myself, I decided I would just stop going out altogether. I wouldn’t be able to crash after having a good day outside of the house if I just didn’t leave the house, I’d decided.

Which ultimately landed me where I am right now: afraid to go any further than my mailbox. Home has become comfortable, peaceful. It’s a safe place for me to crash and cry and yell if I want. It’s a place where I am in absolute control of the visitors (or lack thereof), the mood, the triggers. I don’t encounter anything unexpected at home.

The lack of control and unexpectedness is the hardest part about leaving the house. I have no idea if I’m going to see a pregnant woman out, or maybe parents with their son, or see anything baby related. I don’t know if I’m going to see or hear his name randomly. Watching people live their life as normal kills me, because I don’t get to do that. I feel like my world stopped on July 14 when I learned Oliver didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. My life feels stalled, while everyone else around me gets to keep going and living life like nothing changed. I want to shout, to tell everyone that actually, nothing is the same and everything changed when he died and things will never, ever, ever be the same again.

I will never be the same.

Attempting to leave the house puts me in a state of panic. I have OCD (yes, diagnosed), so I’m on anxiety medication, because ultimately, OCD is a severe form of anxiety. It’s me and my maximum dose of Prozac against the world. And my Prozac is GREAT, but it’s no miracle worker. So when I try to tell myself I should go do something outside of the house, my chest tightens and I struggle to breathe. Sometimes I calm myself down, and sometimes I have a panic attack. My hands shake, my throat feels like it’s closing up, my heart races, and I just have to ride it out.

I’ve done a lot of reading and research lately, and there is a direct link between trauma and agoraphobia. It all comes back to the very real, very scientific way grief and traumatic events rewire the brain (which I have a blog post on, in case you haven’t read it 😉).

Because my agoraphobia is manifesting after experiencing the death of my son, I have to address my grief related to him before I can address the agoraphobia. And I’m really, really, really trying. I’ve learned that as much as I enjoy writing about my experiences and connecting with people who understand, it isn’t healing me in the way I need.

So, in come the professionals. I hate talking about my feelings in person, I hate crying in front of people, but I can’t live life afraid of every little thing anymore. I had my first counseling session today, and I expected to cry the entire time, or leave it feeling with a sense of dread, or not want to return. But when I left, I felt lighter than I have since Oliver died. It truly feels like within that one hour conversation, a weight was lifted off my shoulders, like someone is helping carry my grief. As much as I love my family and friends, and as much as I know they would do anything to help support me, I think I needed to talk to someone who had no idea what was going on, who didn’t have anything to add to the conversation. My counselor was just there to listen and guide my own thoughts as they came out.

One of my goals in counseling is to get through this agoraphobia. My counselor said she’s holding me to that and will call me out if I try to bail on sessions, and I needed to hear that. I needed to know that someone would help force me to leave the house. I’m tackling this one day at a time.