Fear Is a Lost Little Boy on a Bus

Living with agoraphobia: an immersion essay

Time is a curious archivist. Sorting through fragments from my 2018 Literature degree, I’ve come face-to-face with earlier versions of myself as a writer. This immersion essay captured a raw confrontation with agoraphobia that still resonates. While my craft has evolved, I’ve tried to preserve something authentic here. Perhaps in honoring the writer I was, I better understand the writer I’ve become.

There’s a tingling in my fingers and it’s not from the alcohol. I don’t belong on this dance floor and these kids know it. What do most people do when they find themselves in the middle of a herd of sweaty, cocksure teenagers? If I were their age I suppose I’d go with it — throw my head back and just be. But I’m not their age. I’m not even from the same galaxy. They tower over me — a different species — as if those born after 2000 were endowed with superhuman height.

Must be the millennial bug.

There’s the familiar stench of body odor and frothing hormones that conjure memories: the late-90s, football halls crammed with staggering, sloshing teens bobbing their heads to Foo Fighters. But now… here… I’m an imposter. My breathing is unsteady, my heart throbs at a staccato, racing to match the pulse of the music.