A Redefinition of Agoraphobia: The Shame Factor

When I was still living in New York, in the darkest days of my agoraphobia, well-meaning friends and relatives would suggest things like, “Well, why not try going for a short walk every day.” On the face of it, that’s great advice, but, as I discussed in my first article, it is based on a false understanding of what the monster is which guards the door to the outside world. Of course I can’t speak for all agoraphobics, but as I unravel my own illness, I am coming to the conclusion that agoraphobia may be the merging of multiple emotional issues which then work in collusion with one another under the guise of a single problem. Based on my own experience and my conversations with other agoraphobics, I am beginning to believe that shame is a huge component of how this condition takes control of people’s lives. I was not only afraid of my panic, I was profoundly ashamed of it.

One of the mantras of my mother’s life was “what will the neighbors think.” Although we lived in a private house, she worried constantly that the sound of our television or our laughter would bother the neighbors. Although after a considerable amount of therapy, I know now that I was not a fat child, my mother obsessed about my weight and about what others would think of me. I was very self-conscious about my body and as a consequence liked to wear very loose-fitting shirts. These, my mother feared, would lead people to think I was pregnant. More form fitting clothing, of course, was no better. They would think I was a slut. I have spent much of my life wrapped in layers of shame – and have worked it to such an art form that I even have shame about my shame.

So what does that have to do with agoraphobia? For me, personally, I think it had a great deal to do with it. And although I haven’t done a scientific study with which to prove it, I think I’m not atypical. Those of us who live wrapped in toxic levels of shame have difficulty with even positive attention. We know that it is probably a mistake, that it can’t last and that if it does, it will only serve to highlight our utter worthlessness as human beings. So what could be more mortifying than either a public display of panic or public helplessness. It would be better to die of loneliness than to pollute the world with my unworthiness. My therapist used to tell me that for all my kindness to others, he had rarely met such a profound sadist. It is a wonder that I survived my own self-hatred. It was probably a much closer call than I realize even now.

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