The next step

     I figure that it's time to get back to where I started.  This weblog was started so I could take the time to trace my steps into agoraphobia.  And hopefully, to map my path out of it.  So the next step in my journey was that same winter in grade two...

     It was a long weekend my parents decided to take to visit a family friend (Wilna - and, no, it's not a typo) in New Glasgow.  She was a kind, older lady who always had fun games to play and never insisted that a child sit and listen to old stories about things that never entered your mind before your teen years.  She was also very aware that children can quickly grow bored in a house filled with adults that hasn't seen a toy in a decade or more (her children were grown and had started families of their own by this time).  So, being as thoughtful as she was, Wilna had anticipated our desire for toys other than board games and playing cards.  She had spoken with friends who lived about six houses down on the other side of the street.  They had children close to our (my brother and I) age and offered to have us over for a couple of hours.

     Now, as I've already established, snowfall seems to increase my anxiety.  It presents itself as a barrier to my escape from any anxiety-provoking situation.  And it also slows the approach of help when it is called.  I mean, really Matt?  Really?  Ugh.  But I digress.  I do that from time to time.

     So my brother and I got all bundled up in our heavy socks, and snow pants, and heavy winter coats, and heavy winter boots.  Personally, I always felt a kinship with the Michelin Man in the winter months, but it's all about layering isn't it?  Anyway, my brother was off on his way when my last boot was being laced by Mom (I was unable to bend over due to the amount of clothing at this point).  I remember the initial pangs of panic seeing him venture across the yard toward the sidewalk before I had even opened the door.  And then when I tried to open the door I noticed significant resistance.  In fact, Mom has to open the door for me.  At this point I asked her to let me stay home because I was afraid of how windy it was.  She told me I would be fine and to catch up with my brother.  Well, I let the wind take me to my brother more quickly than I might have caught up otherwise and the anxiety diminished...until I tried to stop next to him and found myself unable.  I continued to try, hopelessly, to slow myself down and dig in my heels but the wind continued to overpower me.  My brother called after me that we had to cross the street and that I was already going too far down the street.  I looked up the street and found no cars and began to cross - finding that the street itself was even more slick.  And then it happened...

     "HEEEEEELP!  Aidan, heellllp!!" I cried.

     At first I thought he hadn't heard me.  I was unable to stop and with the blowing wind, the snow was blinding me.  I didn't know if he was even paying attention to me at this point.  I cried harder and harder.  I was blinded by my tears and thought all was lost.  What's worse is that Wilna's house was at the top of a rather steep (at least in 8-year old terms) decline and I figured I would be blown from the face of the earth.  I was in ultimate panic mode at this point.  I couldn't make sense of my surroundings and had basically shut down.  And then I felt a tug, which made me panic all the more, only to find that my big brother had grabbed my left arm and was yelling at me to listen to him when he is calling to me and that I wasn't allowed to go anywhere without him.  He was blissfully, frustratingly, unaware that I had no desire to venture off on my own.  And his chiding only made my upset all the worse.  I screamed at him that I couldn't walk against the wind and that I was going to blow away and that I was scared and to save me and help me and not let me go.  He held my sleeve tighter and dragged me to the door and rang the doorbell.

    "Calm down.  They're gonna answer the door in a second.  Stop crying!" he said.  Aidan was nothing if not reassuring.  (Yes, I'm being sarcastic.)  In his own way my brother was being protective, but at the same time he always made sure to put his best foot forward...regardless of how club-footed I might be feeling at the time.  I guess that's one of our key differences - I lead with my heart, he leads with his mind.  It explains his career geared toward math and sciences, while I'm a writer and artist.  And yet, I always wanted to be like my big brother, regardless of how little he wanted me to emulate him.

       Wilna's friend answered the door and let us in and noticed my upset right away.

      "What are all these tears for?" she asked.

     That was it.  The floodgates were opened.  I bawled and tried to relate my horrible ordeal through shaking and crying.  Aidan was long gone to find the playmates and scurry away from me as quickly as possible.  

      She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay.  You're alright now.  Do you want to go play with the kids?  They're in the bedroom.  C'mon, I'll take you in."

       To be honest, I had been looking forward to playing with some real toys.  But I am shy by nature, and back then I was painfully shy.  The anxiety that hadn't yet subsided, coupled with the still being suppressed crying, added to the anxiety of meeting new people brought it all up.  And by it, I mean my breakfast - and perhaps previous week's meals.  I threw up everywhere.  First on the carpet in the bedroom.  Then in the hallway as I was hauled to the bathroom.  Then partially on the bathroom floor until the toilet seat was lifted.  And as soon as I thought I was done, I was bundled in my clothes and driven the six houses away.  I don't think Wilna ever lived that one down.  I'm not sure who took care of the carpet cleaning but I am sure it was either costly, labour-intensive, or both.  But that was the next step in a series of events in my life that seemed to cement my continued irrational fear of abandonment, being alone, and other insecurities that have since developed in the years following these unfortunate, and all too common, trials.

As I was saying

     So the next event that I believe helped shape my agoraphobic self happened in the winter of grade two.  I remember this day vividly as I had gone to bed the night before hoping for the snow storm my parents had spoken of after supper.  Mom and Dad had been trying to figure out who would pick up our nanny before work, should the weather be too bad for her to arrive by walking, as normal. 

     Well, when I woke up to my father's standard "wakey, wakey" I knew that school had not, in fact, been cancelled.  So, as usual, I slowly but surely began getting ready for the day.  I ate peanut butter toast and frosted flakes (oh, so healthy), washed my face, brushed my teeth, pulled out the first clothes I saw and went to school.  My morning was uneventful.  Spelling test, English lesson, recess, health lesson, social studies, and lunchtime.  

     Grace made Kraft Dinner for lunch that day.  Mind you, it was my favorite so it is fairly certain that Kraft Dinner would be the lunch of choice at least twice per week.  Sometimes Grace would even let me have peanut butter toast with Frosted Flakes.  Not often though.  More often than not we had to have something with nutritional value - fish sticks, or chicken, or my most hated of foods...soup.  But I digress, as I often do...

     I returned to school after lunch and enjoyed the flurries along the way.  I didn't linger too long though as, while I liked the flurries, they also made me nervous since they often meant wind.  I missed another one.  Well, next blog.  The wind in the willows blog.  Well, the wind in New Glasgow blog.  So where was I?  Right.  I got back to school and we were in the midst of our science lesson, or maybe it was math, when the Principal announced on the PA that classes were cancelled.  Mrs. Hennessey told us to pack up our books and get ready to go home.  

     Everyone seemed really excited but my thoughts were filled with concern over whether or not Mom would be home, or if Grace would know to have returned to my house.  This concern continued as I put my mittens on and slipped into my snow pants and winter jacket.  This concern continued as I walked home with Robert, my fears getting louder and louder the more the wind and snowfall increased.  The closer I got to home, the more worried I had myself that no one would be there and I would have nowhere to go and nothing to do but fall apart.  

     When we got to my house I ran up the front steps and rang the doorbell.  I turned to note that Robert was a few steps further away now.  I opened the screen door and pounded on the inner door.  Robert had reached the front walkway of our neighbour's house now.  I looked in the window next to the door and saw no stirring.  And then I turned and saw that Robert was just about beyond the neighbour's hedge.  He had just about passed the point when I would be able to see him.  And then it happened...  

     "ROOOOO-o-ob-BERRRRRT!" I cried.  Literally.  I cried the name out at the top of my lungs.  He turned and started running back calling out to me.  

     "What's wrong?" he asked.  

    "Nobody's home," I sobbed, "and I don't know what to do.  I'm too scared to stay here alone."  

     "Can you get into the house?" he asked.  

     "Yeah, there's a key hidden for the back door," I cried.  "But I'm afraid to be home alone."  I began to sob more strongly.  

     "I'll stay with you if we can go in.  We can play Nintendo or something.  Your Mom will be home soon." he said.  I began to feel better almost instantly.  Robert was braver than I.  And I always felt he was stronger than I was.  There were many summers when he and I ended up on the outs for some reason or another.  I was always petrified to go out.  I remember at least three summers that I spent in the house for fear of confronting Robert and being beaten up.  I felt safer in the house.  I felt safer with Mom.  And yet, here was Robert making me feel safe.  

     We played Nintendo for about half an hour when Mom arrived home calling out to see if I was there.  The school had not notified anyone that classes had been cancelled and Mom did not hear about it on the radio for about half an hour after I had already arrived home.  She kissed my head and then picked up the phone.  She left an angry message for the principal on her answering machine.  Mom was not impressed.  She wondered aloud how many other children came home to empty houses.  Mom placed her Block Parent sign in the window in case anyone needed a place to go due to working parents.  

     I was just happy that she was home.  Robert went home for supper shortly thereafter.  Mom called his grandmother to let her know Robert had been keeping me company because I was scared.  It was a good thing too, because she had been expecting Robert home shortly after the radio had announced the school closure and had been both worried and upset that he had not yet arrived home or called her.  I was just glad that Mom was home.  I was glad that Robert had stayed with me.  After that day, Robert was just about my favorite person.

Maybe I missed one?

     I had intended to make this blog a chronological record of the events of my life that contributed to where I am today, but it seems my memory has chosen not to cooperate. When I was four-years old, my friend Shana and I went to the grocery store with our mothers. They were best friends. So were we. 

     Trips to the grocery store almost felt like little adventures. There are so many aisles of different foods. Some aisles even have toys! And with all of the people and carts, it is like being on safari - at least when you are four-years old. Shana and I liked to pretend that our Moms were chasing us. We would stay with them for a few moments and then when they started chatting over some food selection, we would round the corner of the aisle, hiding just within to "surprise" them with our presence. They always pretended to be surprised. I don't know how they managed. There were about two dozen aisles (it was a small Co-Op...no Superstore or Sobey's - my Mom tends to be anti-establishment and a big supporter of small and local businesses...a trait I have always admired and aspired to).

     We were rounding aisle five, the baking goods aisle, when I saw it - the Jell-O wall. It was a four-feet wide by two-feet tall shelving unit. And it was loaded with every flavour of Jell-O and Jell-O Pudding that you could ever want. And I had found my most favoritest flavour of all" Orange Jell-O. I skipped the scaring part at the opening to the aisle to run around to the other side and ask, nay beg, Mom to buy - and subsequently prepare - some Orange Jell-O. Sadly, Mom's reply was: "We already have Jell-O at home." We had strawnerry and lime Jell-O at home, but no orange. She would make some for tomorrow's dessert (Jell-O apparently took overnight preparation when I was a child - I'm not sure if it is the case today) if I was good. The three please's I offered helped me little. When Mom is determined, that's it. Accept it, and move on. I think I inherited that trait. I try to temper it since, in the last couple of years, I seem to believe that once I am convinced I am right about something...then I must be. Even though I know that is unlikely, there is something inside me that drives me to dismiss the possibility of being wrong...but now I am rambling...as I was saying, the orange Jell-O had been turned down.

***It should be said that, once the groceries were put away Mom made the lime Jell-O without any further prodding. Today, lime Jell-O is actually my flavor of choice.***

     So we continued through the aisle and moved forward to the next. Shana was, by now, prodding me to continue our game of running ahead of our Moms and exploring each aisle first to see if we could find "anything good" to ask for. Sadly, I was too disappointed to continue playing as I was bound and determined to sulk my way into an orange Jell-O night. As they rounded the next corner, I stayed behind and made my way back to the Jell-O. I grabbed the first box and opened it. I decided, since my seconds of sulking had not yet worked, that I would dip my finger into the Jell-O powder and enjoy it right then and there. Mom would be forced to pay for the empty container and I will have gotten my way. Something you may not know if that Jell-O powder lacks the sugary goodness of Kool-Aid powder. Not only did I not have my Jell-O, but I was dissatisfied with my seemingly wonderful alternative. And then it happened...

     I looked up from my dissatisfying Jell-O powder to see that my Mom was nowhere to be seen. So I dropped the box instantly and ran to the next aisle. Nothing. The next. Nothing. Maybe she was looking for me. So I returned to the scene of the crime. Mom wasn't there. She was gone. As far as my four-year old brain could figure, she forgot me at the grocery store. So I did what any sensible child would do in the midst of a panic attack. I wailed like you wouldn't believe.

     Within seconds a nice staffer came and comforted me to calm me down and then asked where my mother was. When I began to tell the guy that I was lost I began to blubber again. Without hesitation he offered to take me to the office so we could page my Mom. It was only about five minutes after that when Mom came to the office. By that point I had scored a can of grape pop and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. But seeing Mom brought all the panic back. I began to sob once I saw her. It was more a sense of relief than anything, as I recall. Mom sat in the first chair she saw and scooped me up to give me the biggest hug of my life. She had been worried and had been searching for me with Shana and her mom. So Mom hugged me for what seemed like a warm, wonderful eternity and thanked the staff before taking me by the hand and leading me back to the produce section to finish grocery shopping. And while I shared my chips with Shana, the grape pop was all mine. 

     What a day it was...

A world like no other

     When I was seven years old, I wrote a note to a friend in a grade two classroom. Recess was only 15 minutes long and we were picking up where we left off from yesterday's game. We were playing house. It was my turn to be the Dad. The day before I didn't like playing the child because I kept having to follow ludicrous rules simply because I was in that role and my friend decided, as father, he could make me do whatever he wanted...including carrying him on my hands and knees from "the kitchen" to "the livingroom". My note was to Jody, to whom I said we would "sleep together" and then "wake the kids" and that she and I would be "as snug as two bugs in a rug like two frogs on a log". Now, I had seen a card somewhere that said something similar and thought I was being clever and funny. At the ripe old age of 7, I had no idea what such a statement might imply other than a rhyme and people being in the same place at the same time.

     My teacher had been called away to a phone call and the principal, a nun at this catholic public school. She saw the note being passed and demanded it be given to her. Keep in mind that I was 7 years old. Reading this note, the principal flew into a rage and dragged four of us to the office for reprimand. It seems that each of us in turn were terrorized with our parents having been called in due to this horrendous incident. I, being the note's author, drew the greatest ire of Sister Satan (FYI: not her real name). First I was walked across the street to the convent chapel where I was ordered to pray and beg God's forgiveness. Then I was walked back to the school and into the principal's outer office while she called my mother to find out "what to do with me". The outer office, coincidentally, had "the strap" sitting on the desk directly across the room for me. All I could do was stare in fear at this "weapon of persecution" while waiting for the Sister to return to further torment me.

     When she returned to the outer office, I was told my mother could not be reached. Sister Satan, with no other recourse, said that she may have to consider contacting the local orphanage. No mother, mine presumably included, would want a child who would write such sinful things and spread such awfulness amongst my innocent classmates. Keep in mind, at this point I still don't know how my note had resulted in such anger. When my mother, who was reached, appeared I was instructed to beg my mother's forgiveness. I was already beside myself at this point, but the sight of my mother caused me to burst into tears and drop to my knees. I was so afraid that she was going to be equally inexplicably angry and give me up for adoption. All I knew to do was ask for her forgiveness and to tell her how sorry I was and that I would never do it (whatever it was) again. Mom lifted me into her lap and smiled saying of course she would forgive me and that she loved me. She suggested I go to the washroom and wash my face and dry my tears. While I was gone, she spoke with the nun who (in my opinion) changed my life forever and started me on the road to agoraphobic hell...

     My mother asked her what I had done. She handed the note to my mother without another word. Mom read the note, giggled, and looked to Sister Satan saying only, "Okay." It turns out that this twisted nun assumed I was implying that I would be having sex during recess and was planning the activity with my 7-year old brethren. Sex. At age seven. Now, perhaps by some miraculous mutation there are some 7-year olds who are capable of the physical act of sexual intercourse. Granted, there may even be a number of 7-year olds who know exactly how important their genitals are to this activity. I, however, was not one of them. I was barely conscious of aiming at the toilet at this age. What the hell else was I going to do with that damned thing at seven years of age???

     For the next few months, Mom didn't leave my sight. If she went to the basement to do laundry, I went to the top of the stairs. And while she was down there I checked the doors repeatedly to ensure she was not sneaking out. I even went so far as to watch out the living room window to ensure she was not slipping out the garage to get away from me. I was so fearful that my mother was going to abandon me (the sinner who wrote a note) that if she was in the washroom I was tiptoeing up the stairs to ensure I could hear her still there. It wasn't until February of the following year that my fears would see their first reinforcement.