I am claustrophobic. I think I always have been a little bit, but it’s gotten worse as I have gotten older. It’s not so bad that it’s debilitating, but it does impact me in noticeable ways.
I avoid small spaces. Even thinking about them makes me start to breathe faster. Prior to a recent vacation to Mammoth Cave National Park, I scoured the tour descriptions to make sure that I chose one within my small-space comfort level. (Fat Man’s Squeeze was a no-go based on name alone.) Even still, as we navigated a fairly spacious cave tour, I could feel my heart accelerate through some of the smaller spaces and passageways. I had to hold up the line at the beginning of those spaces until the people before me were completely through, so that I could then run through them as fast as possible and not get stuck in the middle. In these moments, I can do it (within reason), but I can also feel my heart start to race and my breathing gets labored. It really is the beginning state of panic.
I make my daughter climb under the bed in search of missing toys and socks because even this space is enough to make me hyperventilate.
Additionally, I have gone through great lengths to communicate my wishes for when I die so that I can avoid as many small spaces as possible then as well. I want to be cremated immediately, no embalming, and ashes scattered somewhere. No coffin, no urn and I am trying desperately to think of a way to get around being cremated in the cardboard box they use if you don’t buy a coffin. I told you – great lengths. Don’t tell me I won’t know when I am dead. I know now and that is enough to start the anxiety setting in.
Even clutter can start to make me feel like I need more space.
So, what does all of this have to do with motherhood? Well, let me tell you.
My kids are very clingy. Sometimes it’s snuggles and I don’t mind that so much. But, as the day goes on and the touching becomes more and more CONSTANT, I feel that claustrophobic itch start to set in. Hands in my face. Heads on my shoulder. Literally following in my footsteps everywhere I go. Climbing on me. Leaning on me. Stepping on my feet. They are always underfoot. And when they aren’t underfoot, the dogs are. There are days, I can’t turn around without tripping over one or more living beings.
This is par for the course with motherhood. It’s what I signed up for. I love being around my children, but sometimes I need my bubble. My bubble keeps me sane. My bubble keeps me calm. My bubble keeps me from feeling the walls of claustrophobia settling in.
I hate this feeling. I hate that my skin sometimes crawls when my kids snuggle up against me or that I sometimes hurt their feelings because I just need 10 minutes of space and time not being touched. I hate when I can feel the irritability and crazy feeling that starts to climb when I feel like the proverbially walls are closing in on me. I worry that these feelings will continue to get worse as I continue to get older. It makes me feel for people with truly life-affecting mental illnesses/phobias. Fortunately, for now, mine – at least when it comes to the parenting piece – can be tamed by a therapeutic trip to Target by myself.
