stories of the street - Seven

Every morning the bus stops at the place by the corner and Mary hesitates before getting on. For five years now, almost every working day sees her there and she still hesitates before getting on.

Bus drivers grow bemused as they watch this and they talk about it to colleagues who cover the route, too.

Some call out, “Come on dear, I won’t bite you!” or, “C’m’on, we haven’t got all day!”, words like those but they never seem to stir any response in her. It’s as if there is nothing conscious or intentional in the hesitation she displays.

No one knows that Mary is really suffering from agoraphobia and from claustrophobia, too. She is on the verge of breaking up and has been for over five years, now. Each day this quiet young woman prepares herself to face another ordeal. In her quiet little bed-sit she finishes her breakfast and washes methodically, brushing her teeth with care, knowing that she could carry on brushing her teeth for a couple of hours. She could brush her teeth ‘till her gums bleed then phone in sick knowing that she at least had some shred of truth in the story as she sat there with her mouth quietly on fire from the raw, bloody gums.

Instead, she finishes her brushing and dresses, spends a few minutes on her make up and walks around the living room half of her bed-sit. She walks around the sofa and on to the small table, around it and past the sink and cooker to the sofa again. She stops and looks over to the bed with its covers down to air the sheets. She puts her coat or jacket on, depending on the weather, then goes over and pulls the cover back over the bed, picks up her bag and leaves.

Locking that door and walking down the stairs to the main door always carves a hollow space inside her. By the time she opens the main door and steps out into the street she feels like she is in free fall. Every step now is a half felt probe into a distant world as she makes her way to the bus stop. Inside her rages a storm of terror and a constant voice telling herself it will be alright, she must keep on going. It is a voice she finds difficult to believe, even if it is her own voice. It is her own mind, telling her that she can do it while the other part of her brain is screaming, “RUN!!”, “MOVE IT! GET BACK TO THE BEDSIT NOW!! TOO LATE, CURL UP IN A BALL AND HIDE! OH, GOD HELP ME!!!”

Then the bus arrives. She can run but it feels like it is too late for that. She wonders how she can face moving from the bus shelter to the crowded bus and the driver/conductor is always chivvying her along to get on. She drives herself forward with all the power and determination she can drag from the shreds of self left intact by the turmoil she is suffering and gets on. She is so terrified she is both acutely aware of every little movement and sound around her but she is so past the ability to do anything more than move to a seat or standing space that everything feels like she is dislocated from it. She is controlling her breathing and her internal pleading to run is subsiding into a general mode of abject fear of everything.

Another working day has started for Mary.