Some days I leave the house and I’m like, Wow, she’s so brave. So capable. Just out here walking down the street like a normal person. Other days, I walk 200 metres and suddenly I’m clenching my icepack like I’m about to be abducted by the atmosphere.
I do go out. I’m not a recluse. I go to the gym. I went to work when I had a job. I buy protein bars and pretend I’m normal, and swipe my card like I've got it together. But I don’t leave town. I don’t drive far. I don’t take the highway. If the road stretches too long or turns unfamiliar, I can feel my heart race like it knows something I don’t.
They call it agoraphobia. Or anxiety. Or panic disorder. Or whatever DSM-5 special of the day is being served.
And yeah, sometimes it’s valid. Sometimes it feels like my nervous system is trying to warn me about something no one else can see. But other times I’m like… maybe I’m just emotionally high maintenance?
Because honestly, sometimes I think I made it all up.
Not consciously. Not for sympathy. Just accidentally. Like a coping mechanism I downloaded in a moment of crisis then forgot how to uninstall.
And I’ve done this shit before. With food. Four years of eating disorders. Tracking, avoiding, obsessing, making entire meals out of pickles and identity crises. Four years of slow suicide by discipline. And still. part of me wonders if I was just being dramatic. If maybe I didn’t really have anorexia. Maybe I was just disciplined. Maybe I just liked the control and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe I never had a problem, I just made myself one.
People say, “You were unwell.” and I nod. But inside I’m like, Was I though? Or was I just competitive and chronically online?
It’s a weird kind of gaslighting when you're doing it to yourself. Like part of me knows I’ve spent years trying to untangle this, with therapists, doctors, research. But another part still whispers, “You’re faking it. You’re not mentally ill, you’re just really, really weak.”
That voice. The same voice that said, “Do you want this food or the body you've always wanted.” The same one that says, “You’re not anxious, you’re just lazy.” The same one that turns every symptom into a character flaw.
“Am I agoraphobic?”
Or am I just someone who freaks out about timeframes and hates leaving the perimeter of my safe bubble?
The worst part is, I have diagnoses. Therapists. I’ve sat in rooms crying and shaking and paid people to tell me I’m not making it up.
And yet.
That little voice still knocks, “What if you're just a fucking pussy?”
Maybe I am.
Maybe I’m not mentally ill. Maybe I’m just a little bitch.
But, maybe that’s what being mentally ill is.
I'm still showing up. Still trying. Still going outside and saying, “This is terrifying and I’m doing it anyway.”
Even when the voice in your head says, “You’re lying.”
Even when you believe it.
So yeah. I’m not sure what’s real. I can't always trust my brain. But I know I’ve survived it.
And I know I’m still here.
And if that makes me mentally ill, or just a little bitch, so be it.
I still try.
And maybe that’s what matters more than whether it was real in the first place.