Bad Bank Holiday

I had a good weekend. After spending a fortune on Friday, I went out with GKL and C on Saturday and we visited our secret yarn store. I brought some Noro to start a shawl with, and yarn to start Christmas presents with (since I've decided not to take knitting to Maine because it's too bulky, all my knitted presents need to be finished by August - I'll let you know how that goes). We went to Nero and had frappes, and sat knitting. We went to the Potteries and GKL splurged and brought herself some J'adore. I came home and sat chatting to N for hours. And on Sunday I spent all day playing with Comet and chatting to N.

N is doing well. His antidepressants are kicking in, and he's no longer on a different planet. He's currently in a hyper stage. Which has it's benefits and it's drawbacks. On the plus side, he's a lot more willing to be emotional and flattering when he's hyper. He's like he was when we very first met. And he's happy, which is always a plus. On the downside, he can't really concentrate. He has the major fidgets and can't focus on much, so work is still a problem. Is it wrong that I want him to stay as hyper N, even if it means he's signed off sick for ever? I like hyper N.

But I've had a good weekend. I'm generally happy. Things are going well. So why the hell did I have an agoraphobic attack this morning?

A few years ago when I was living in Southampton I went through an agoraphobic phase. I wouldn't leave my house. It stemmed from my fear of crowds, which stemmed from checking every single face I saw to make sure it wasn't someone I knew and needed to avoid. I had trouble opening the front door and stepping out of it. I'd get overcome with waves of terror and panic attacks. Inside my home I could control what happened to me. Outside, in the big scary world, anything could happen. Anyone could get me. So I didn't go out. For months at a time.

But I got over it. When I moved to Stoke the agoraphobia all but disappeared, leaving a few remnants when I was tired or edgy. Until today. Actually, it's happened a few times this year. I was up and dressed and ready to go to uni for my politics lectures. I was actually looking forward to it. Lectures weren't 'til two, but I decided to go in early to do some work in the library. Around half 10 I went downstairs, put on my boots and went to open the front door.

It was like hitting a wall. One of those invisible force field barriers you see in movies. I couldn't reach out and open the door, let alone step through it. Every time I tried I was hit with an overwhelming sense of terror. Utter and complete fear and panic. If I even tried to push through it I started hyperventilating and shaking and new I'd have a panic attack.

Not good. I was fine sat in the living room. And I know full well that if NW had been down there I wouldn't have had a problem. I'd have walked straight out. I never have a problem if someone else is around. But I had the problem today. I sat in the lounge for over an hour, trying every so often to leave the house. It didn't happen. It got to the point where I burst into tears just because N told me he loved me in a text. So I gave up, and came upstairs to my safe bedroom, where I can control what happens and instantly everything was fine again.

I started to do some work, but fell asleep and woke up about 45 minutes ago, only to experience a wave of guilt and humiliation. I'm the organiser type person for my group in the Intercultural Communication module at uni. We have a presentation to do on Wednesday morning and I organised a last run-through meeting for this evening. And I missed it. I was the one who organised it. I'm the one who nags people. And I missed it. I feel stupid and guilty and evil.

Why can things never go right?