Claustrophobia
I don’t like hemming in my identity by stating, “I am claustrophobic.” It’s too small and too confining. Lately I’ve been using this descriptive phrase with my family: “I’m feeling claustrophobic just now and just need to…” I make adjustments, such as when our family went on an outing to the Scenic Caves in the Blue Mountains area. A few of the caves required visitors to squeeze through tight openings. Just looking at those entrances set my heart racing. I chose an alternative route.
Alongside of circumstantial scenarios - big crowds or crowded elevators - I am sometimes visited by dream images in which I am stuck in a small room, narrow alleyway, or a coffin-like box. Usually, I will shout or cry out in those nightmares, an act that causes me to bolt out of the dream. Catherine might have to shake me awake on occasion.
Lately I've been turning over the situations in which this condition gets triggered. Partly, I’ve been seeking themes or patterns that might help me better understand the genesis of my condition. For instance, there was the time I organized a Sweat Lodge for several of my close, male friends. It was facilitated by a First Nations elder. I was the last one to enter the tight, hot darkness. As I closed the flap and squeezed into the one empty space, I felt panic rising up. I got through the subsequent rounds by breathing fully and chanting softly.
Another time I attended Toronto’s SarsStock Festival along with an estimated 500,000 other people. The Rolling Stones were finishing the evening portion and, three songs in, their performance wasn’t connecting with me. I wasn’t alone. Thousands of us headed for the limited exit areas - like cattle trying squeeze through a singular gate. I couldn’t go anywhere except forward and had to breathe my way out to the more spacious Allen Expressway.
What I have harvested from various scenes - such as the Toronto subway train stuck between stations in a dark tunnel - is an operating theory that my birth experience was perhaps traumatic. Unfortunately, whenever I have talked to my mother about her memory, I only get fuzzy or foggy responses. She, like millions of women in that era were administered a "twilight sleep” drug. This method of childbirth involved inducing a state of amnesia and pain insensitivity in the mother through the administration of drugs like morphine and scopolamine. It was intended to provide pain relief during labor but equally erased the mother's memory of her childbirth experience.
My other working hypothesis comes from a traumatic childhood event where some neighbourhood boys locked me inside the crawl space beneath our war time house. In Canada, strawberry box houses were built during World War II and into the 1950s to 1960s. It was a style that used a square or rectangular foundation without a basement. The dirt floor was only a few feet deep - hence the term crawl space. I remember kicking the latched door so hard with my legs and feet that I broke the hinges and got free.
In the end, despite everything from deep reflections to conversations with therapists, I’m left with not much more than an awareness of triggering circumstances and coping mechanisms such as breathing deeply and slowly. I have also learned how to make others aware of my condition and advocate for my wellbeing. For example, several years ago I had to enter an MRI machine (lovingly supported by my partner) and a kind technician. I practiced a mindfulness meditation for a long time before being ready.
Last night, after working all day and night in a city environment, I drove home and stepped out of our car around 11 p.m. A strong wind was blowing and, as I looked up at the stars, I took in the vastness of darkness surrounding our rural home. I breathed it in and took comfort in the fact that both the macrocosm and microcosm are predominantly composed of space… breathing room.