I was eight years old when I rode the city bus by myself.
I was helping one of my cousins out at her pet store over a mile away. So on a Saturday morning, I left the house two hours ahead of schedule, and I fearlessly stepped onto the city bus and waited for my stop. Then I walked to a local restaurant and sat by myself, waiting for my cousin to show up an hour later to open the store.
When I was eighteen years old, I moved back to Utah for a few years where I had no car. I depended on public transportation to survive. I needed to get to and from work. It took a total of three buses to get me to work, and another three to get me back home. It took a grand total of an hour and a half.
When Matt and I got married, we had no car. We used the bus to get everywhere. Once I got on a bus after a root canal by myself, doped up on meds, and rode it all the way home.
But the last few years as
OCD and anxiety have taken over my life . . .
I've been controlled by fear.
This once fearless, independent child, grew into a woman who couldn't even walk to the gym in her own apartment complex, because she was afraid of going near the front office. A woman who couldn't check her mail because it's location put her in danger of crossing people that might not like her. A woman who went into a full blown panic attack when told that there was a potential job, and it only took two buses to get there.
As Matt and I have been working through our finances, the subject of me working outside the house again has come up. But was I ready? And how would I even get there? The way
my last job ended still brings shame and fear into my mind.
I remember talking to Matt alone after meeting with our Bishop who suggested using the bus system to our advantage. I remember saying,
"If I get on a bus, I'm afraid I will die." And I meant that with all my heart. Was I afraid of a bus crash? No. Was I afraid that someone on the bus would attack me? Unlikely. I was afraid that the mere act of stepping foot on a bus would in fact kill me. I would die.
This is how OCD communicates. And I am aware it is not logical. But I'm also aware that there are no monsters under my bed, and yet, when it's dark, sometimes, I still jump.
A week ago I received a phone call. Last year I had applied to many local stores and restaurants and finally, one of those applications had made it's way around during a time when someone needed a new employee. Strangely, I found myself saying,
"Yes, I can come in for an interview."
We set up the interview on Monday, when I knew Matt was off work and would be able to take me. But when we showed up, there was a schedule confusion and the person meant to interview me was off. I was instructed to come back the next day - the next day when Matt would be at work. The next day when all my family members would be at work. The next day when my visiting teacher would be at school. The next day when I was alone in the world,
scared to death.
I wasn't going. I made that decision immediately. I even came up with excuses that had nothing to do with the real reasoning behind my decision. They screwed up the time, why should I suffer? I didn't even want to work there anyways. It would only end the same way my last job did. It's not like I would get the job anyway. It would be a waste of time and money.
As time ticked on, I figured I might as well look at the bus schedule and see when it leaves, just for the hell of it. And then I felt a panic attack coming on. My OCD was warning me - reminding me of the dangers - while my soul was forcing me to try and break through.
I began to have a panic attack. My breathing increased and my chest felt tight. I started sweating. I wanted to cry. I felt dizzy and my hands began to shake.
And then I made a decision.
I said,
"This won't kill me. Panic attacks can't kill me."
I remembered something that one of my cousins said a long time ago. One of her children used to throw temper tantrums when he wouldn't get his way. He would hold his breath and refuse to breathe until given his way. While other parents would panic, my cousin held her ground and said,
"The worst that could happen is that he'll just pass out and immediately start breathing again."
The body wants to breathe.
If my panic attack took away my breath, the worst thing that could happen, was that I would pass out, and immediately start breathing again. And so I willed it. I faced my panic attack head on and I said, "Is that all you got. This can't kill me. I've survived worse. No matter what you take from me, I will breathe."
And slowly, but surely . . . it stopped.
And I breathed.
And then I walked outside my house, and took more steps by myself than I've taken in over six months. The sun felt hot on my face, and I have the slight sunburn to prove it.
My battle scar.
I faced agoraphobia and I have proof.
And then with four quarters in my hand I stood in front of a bus stop and nervously rubbed the coins between my fingers. My headphones on, I listened to
"Last Resort" by Papa Roach to block out the noise from the traffic.
"Cut my life into pieces, this is my last resort."
The bus arrived.
"Just breathe." And I stepped on, hands shaking as I paid my fare, and I took my seat.
And I cried because I was alive. Because I was still breathing. Because I wasn't panicking. Because the sun was out and it was so damn beautiful! And I knew that, because I could see it with clear eyes, not hiding behind the windows of my house. I still have anxiety. I still have OCD. I still have depression. These aren't articles of clothing I can cast aside at will. They stick to my skin. They are woven into the fabric of my being, and it will take time to pull them out. It will take effort to live with them forever.
But I am not my fear.
In the days that followed, I had follow up interviews and paperwork. I've stepped foot on seven different buses. I've traveled by myself on a bus over 30 miles this week total. I've walked on foot over 2 miles. I've checked my mail. I've walked through the front office of our apartment complex without fear. I even took my first look at their on site laundry mat. And I went to the gym with my visiting teacher. And I worked on an elliptical machine for 2 miles. And I am sore! But I am breathing.
And breathing feels so good.
