My heart sinks a little more
with every old poem I read.
I talk of truth, baring my soul.
I feel like a fraud.
How can I let go and fly,
when I’m tethered to my home?
I have allowed the ropes of fear
to entangle me, again.
It eats me up, nibbles at me daily.
I am so ashamed–I’m not a stupid woman.
I know how, what, where, when—
I just don’t know why.
Why I can’t get past the front door.
Why I can’t walk down the street by myself.
Why I have become so reclusive.
I feel safe here (in my house).
I feel protected (in my car).
I feel brave (when I’m not alone).
If you were to see me on a good day,
you would never guess
that I have this ugly secret.
I’m terrified of open spaces;
groups of people; bright lights;
I feel so exposed. Self-conscious. Petrified.
The truth is: I am agoraphobic.