I jump up from the couch; tiptoe up to the door, careful not to slip on the slick coupon circulars that now paper the foyer; and peek through the peephole at Earl’s backside as he walks away.
I’m so elated to see him, alive and breathing in his blue shorts and knee-high socks that end in those unflattering medical-looking walking shoes, his mail bag slung over his left shoulder and crossing his body to fall on his right hip, that part of me wants to rush out the door and throw my arms around him.
But obviously I wouldn’t do that.
As I bend down to gather up the mail, I see them: the red stamps screaming at me from the envelopes.
PAST DUE
LATE NOTICE
SEND PAYMENT
I knew they would come. Of course I knew. Lenny was true to his promise and though he did mail the deed to the house, and a final mortgage statement marked “paid,” he has not sent one check since my mother died six weeks ago—so I haven’t paid one bill, hoarding the little money I had left for daily necessities like food. I’ve spent most of my days researching jobs I could do without leaving home. I applied to be a virtual assistant, an online tutor, and even a phone answerer for an off-hours call center, though I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being awake at three a.m. But I didn’t get as much as a call back. Maybe because in the “experience” section of the applications, I wrote “none,” but do you really need job experience to answer phones?
And now, I’m staring at letter after letter announcing that my electricity will be cut off, and the water, even my Internet.
And how would I look for a job then? Or order groceries? Or survive?
I need money.
For that, I need to get a job.
For that, I apparently need to leave the house.
And at that thought, the giant fist that first clenched my heart six weeks ago is back, and it becomes difficult to breathe.
I HATE WHEN people self-diagnose. I watched my mom do it for years—she had everything from rabies (even though she’d never been bitten by an animal) to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease to syphilis (although, in retrospect, that diagnosis wouldn’t have been exactly surprising). But after conducting a pretty thorough Google search, I think it’s safe to say I’m suffering from an anxiety disorder, which may or may not be agoraphobia. (Other fact I learned in my search: Emily Dickinson didn’t leave her house for most of the last fifteen years of her life—and she only wore white, and made friends and visitors talk to her through her front door, which makes me feel a little better about my situation. At least I’m not crazy.)
What I don’t understand is why no one else finds it ironic that the recommended treatment for agoraphobia is to leave your house and seek the counsel of a therapist.
I know I need to leave my house, but knowing something and putting it into action are often two different things.
Fortunately, my Google sleuthing yesterday also produced the Emotional Freedom Technique, or EFT, which uses psychological acupressure to remove emotional blocks that you may be experiencing, according to the website.
That’s why this morning I stand at my front door gently tapping the top of my skull with my fingertips. Then, I move on to:
my eyebrows
the sides of my eyes
under my eyes
my chin
my collarbone
my armpits
my wrists
I glance back at the paper I printed out yesterday. Shoot. I forgot to do under the nose before tapping my chin. I begin the process over again, tap all the requisite body parts, and then look back to the instructions.
While you’re tapping, say this phrase out loud (fill in the blank).
Even though I have this __________, I deeply and completely accept myself.
While I’m tapping? I’ve already done the tapping twice. I don’t want to do it a third time. I crumple the paper and throw it to the floor in anger. It hits the hardwood with an unsatisfyingly light scraping sound. So I stomp on it, crushing it under my heel.
Then I stand at the door, staring out the single glass panel set in the wood. It’s an overcast day and the world has a grayish tint, as if the clouds are shedding bits of themselves into the air like a shaggy wool sweater.
It’s Saturday, so there’s no chance of running into the garbage truck, which loosens the giant fist squeezing my chest just a smidge. But what if a neighbor comes out to get their paper? Or walk their dog? Or what if Earl comes early?
The fist curls tighter.
Maybe I am as crazy as Emily Dickinson.
I take a deep breath. I have to get out of the house. I have to get a job.
I take another deep breath, shake out my hands, and start tapping the top of my skull again with my middle fingers.
“Even though I have this fear of speaking to the garbagemen, I deeply and completely accept myself,” I whisper.
Then, my eyebrows.
“Even though I don’t want to run into my neighbors, I deeply and completely accept myself.”
I repeat the phrase, remembering under my nose this time, and move all the way down to my wrists.
Then I open the door and step out onto my porch.
I steel my body and turn my head, scanning the street from right to left. No neighbors. No dogs on leashes. No mailman.
Still, my heartbeat revs to that now-familiar galloping pace.
And then, a fat raindrop falls out of the sky and onto my head. From the looks of the foreboding clouds above, it’s the first of many. And I don’t have an umbrella with me.
My hand never left the front door knob, so it’s easy to turn it to the left, push the door inward, and step back into the dry cocoon of my home. The dead bolt makes a satisfying click as I turn it into place.
I’m both defeated and relieved. And then I feel defeated for feeling relieved.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” I say out loud, thinking of my sixth-grade math teacher, Mr. Walcott, who had a multitude of catchphrases he’d repeat ad nauseam, including “A promise spoken can’t be broken.”
But even back then, I knew that was a lie.
I DON’T REALLY believe in auras or energies or any of that psychic stuff, which means I’m pretty sure EFT is bullshit. So I can’t explain why I repeat the ritual the next morning, and every morning thereafter. But the farthest I’ve made it so far is my front porch.
On Friday, over my eggs and cut-up toast, I decide that today is going to be the day. I’m going to get in my car and drive away from the house. That is, if I can remember how. I only had my license for a year before my mom left and I wasn’t exactly skilled at the task. I hit something more often than not: the trash can, the curb. One time I nailed a bird and in my rearview mirror I saw its partner swoop down, squawking in horror at the demise of its mate. I didn’t drive for two weeks after that and can still hear the high-pitched caws if I close my eyes and try hard enough.