Just Fine (4 page)

2
Therapy of Exposition

VII

W
HEN I CAME HOME that day I found a message asking me to call the press attaché of the provincial intergovernmental affairs minister as soon as possible. I was surprised. I had no idea what he could possibly want to talk to me about. Politics was not something I had ever thought of getting involved in and I saw no reason to change my thinking on that score. This call from the minister's office, therefore, took on extraordinary proportions and I was driven to extravagant fantasizing. Suddenly, everything became possible, even opportunities I had never dared to imagine. Maybe a Québec author had expressed interest in my work and wanted to come work with me in Moncton as part of a cultural exchange between the two provinces. Better still, perhaps the director of
Bouillon de culture,
TV5
's cultural magazine, had contacted the minister during a recent official visit to France, and begged him to send me to Paris to participate in the program. The host, Bernard Pivot, had insisted on it. He'd read my last book and found it very amusing. Immediately, my life began to flash before my eyes: Dieppe, Hard Time Gallant's Marsh Canteen, and the wigglers we dug up for a few nickels and dimes, the little, grey wooden schoolhouse and Moody Shaban's Palm Lunch, the marsh in flames and the tufts of grass frozen in the ice of the bog, the tiny strawberries in the fields, the Three Streams, and Irving oil tankers on the Petitcodiac. I was prepared to tell all, they only had to ask. The words wanted nothing more than to come out. Life had perhaps never been told this way before. The questions would be sincere and interested and my answers would flow, clear and honest. There would be a feeling someone was being discovered. The germ of recognition, all of a sudden, after so many years. They would listen to me at last. It would be like a second birth, as important as or perhaps more important than the first.

*

When I got to Marie's, she was plucking a chicken to make a fricot. I gathered up my courage, because the smell of Acadian bouillon sometimes makes me nauseous and, unlike many of my compatriots, I find it increasingly difficult to swoon over a bowl of fricot. In any case, the main thing to establish here is that I didn't turn back. Because, when you're agoraphobic, you often turn back, almost whenever you're unable to relax in the face of adversity. It's called avoidance.

In the beginning, Marie was no more than a good neighbour to me. It's only because of the children that she became a friend to whom I can tell anything. Well, almost anything. Her two kids are a handful, mainly because they're spoiled, and she knows it but that doesn't stop her from going right on spoiling them. I like people who transgress, who commit their mistakes consciously.

“Julien, pick up your stuff before someone falls over it and spills their poutines, or I'll mash you!”

It's also Marie's direct way of speaking that endeared her to me. I got a taste of it in the course of carrying out our respective parental duties. Nothing beats a sale of poutines in support of some extracurricular school activity to bring out all of your existential poison and make you wonder, really, what could possibly have possessed you to produce these little creatures who never stop squirming and writhing all around you — and all this, even if you do see some value in the activity in question. In this case, it was an exchange trip with students from Meune-sur-Saône.

“All the way over in France, eh! Well, aren't they lucky!”

*

Under the sign of Gemini, the third astrological house is the house of life's context. The house of brothers and sisters, of cousins and neighbours, people we don't choose but who nevertheless reflect our personal aspirations. It's the house of public places, of short trips, and of means of transportation. As the house of physical and social mobility, it pushes us to go toward others, to emerge from anonymity. The third house influences our ability to deal with the desire to ascend the social ladder, as well as the occupations and concerns that result from it. The third house is also the house of the mind's abilities: common sense and intelligence, innate talents, comprehension, the ability to grasp ideas and to deal with those around us, and the sense of belonging to a network, as opposed to living in solitude and stagnation. It's the house that enables us to envision how far we can go, both physically and psychologically. House of communication in all its forms, the third house is also that of writing.

*

It turned out to be the best (or, for me, the worst) case scenario. I confided in Marie that I was summoned to Paris to appear on the
Bouillon de culture
program. Of course, I had to explain to her what sort of bouillon it was and who Bernard Pivot was. In short, how glory itself had fallen so low as to turn its gaze on me.

“You mean it'll be like the old
Saturday Night Live
with Eddie Murphy, except without the sketches or the ads?”

I didn't dare admit that I'd never watched
Saturday
Night Live.
“Something like that.”

I could feel Marie doubting, for a fraction of a second, the attraction of such a program. But, as always, she abandoned herself to the throes of optimism and rejoiced in my success, confiding that she'd always known something exciting would happen to me. The bones of her stewed chicken lay in their grease a little longer than usual before she drained and tossed them into one of the six recycling bins — regular paper, newspaper, plastic, metal, glass, and organic waste — neatly aligned in the new post-overconsumption cupboard designed for our new society. Marie wanted to know when I was leaving, where I would stay, if I'd go alone, and what else I'd do over there. And that's when I was more or less obliged to make my confession.

*

Upon entering the shop, I asked to be served in French. A proud and hardy Brayon appeared before me. I guessed he must be the owner of the muddy amphibian vehicle I'd seen in the parking lot. I was more or less certain I was dealing with one of those weathered francophones from the Madawaska region of New Brunswick who live for weekends spent exploring interminable forest paths in hopes of discovering a mountain, a new lake, or, with a bit of luck, a moose in the mist. I know some of these people person-ally and, though I admire their penchant for wide open spaces and faraway places, I must say I have my own good reasons to forget they exist.

I was explaining to the salesman that I wanted to buy a cellular phone but that I knew nothing about them. He directed me to a shelf overflowing with various models, each one more enticing than the next. I explained that I wanted a small, light, portable phone. I was wavering between a model you could plug into the car lighter and a battery-operated, completely portable phone. Naturally, I didn't want to pay more than necessary, especially not for a host of features that were of no use to me.

The young salesman did his utmost to serve me. It was more than I needed. Frankly, I would have preferred a few minutes of silence to think quietly about which model and features best suited my needs. The salesman continued to bombard me, alternating between technical information about which I understood practically nothing and questions on the nature of my work and the use I intended to make of the cellphone. I explained that, on the whole, I would make very little use of it, that it was mostly to keep in contact with people, my family, for example. This information didn't seem to satisfy him. He asked a few more questions and, in response to my somewhat evasive replies and in a tone that betrayed his growing impatience, he said, “If I knew what business you were in, I might be able to help you.”

Poor man. He wanted so badly to be helpful that he ended up being a pain. I didn't really feel like confiding in him and telling him I was agoraphobic and couldn't bear wide open spaces and that the phone was to call for help in case I panicked. So I cut off the discussion and chose a popular model, a decision that seemed to please him. While he was filling out the plethora of forms, I eyed my new phone uncertainly. I wasn't entirely sold on the idea of acquiring this crutch but at least it would please my psychologist, who would see in it yet another sign of my will to be cured.

*

Apart from the few close friends I had to inform, I rarely spoke about my “business.” It's a fact that agoraphobes are absolutely ashamed of their neuroses. Irrational fears one has difficulty in understanding and accepting oneself are not exactly the sort of thing one enjoys sharing with others. Especially when one doesn't appear to have problems. As Marie exclaimed when I explained my situation, “You? But you've travelled all over the bloody place!”

Travelled is a big word for what I did. I was young and determined. I thought the new physical sensations were more or less normal, a consequence of being physically and psychologically separated from my childhood environment. I wanted so badly to forge ahead, not to be left behind, that I never realized that this thing I was feeling was fear. I continued along in spite of everything, in spite of myself, seeking calm here and there, and occasionally finding an oasis where things were okay, where there were kind people I could rely upon if ever the thing manifested itself, if my body and my head began to respond, if the thing erupted. For one of the big nuisances of agoraphobia is precisely the fear of finding yourself without the help of someone who understands or gives the impression of understanding what's happening and who knows how to react.

Even so, Marie was incredulous She added, “Well, and what if you'd won the France-Acadia Prize last year, then? How were you planning to go over there to get it?”

I had to explain to Marie that, in fact, it had been a great relief not to have won the prize because I couldn't possibly imagine “going over to get it.”

VIII

I
WAS TAKING A RISK
confiding in Marie. I was afraid of being told that things would work out fine if only I'd put my faith in God once and for all. Marie thinks I'm complicating my life by not believing in God. For her, having faith is easy, so why deprive yourself of it, why take unnecessary chances?

But Marie didn't mention God. As she'd never heard of agoraphobia, she began by listening to me, occasionally requesting clarifications and bursting into laughter when she realized how ridiculous and untenable agoraphobia could be. Her eyes filled with tears when I explained that I was unable to drive alone along the road between Fox Creek and La Hêtrière that leads into the Memramcook valley. I should mention that Marie weighs more than
250
pounds and that her tears were prompted mainly by the idea of being deprived of the excellent pies served at LeBlanc's restaurant across from the Saint-Joseph baseball field in the valley. She found it less of a problem that I couldn't bring myself to drive to Shediac for fear of having an attack on the highway.

“Just take the old road. It's a whole lot prettier.”

*

Under the sign of Sagittarius, the ninth astrological house is the house of that higher spirit that inspires religion, law, science, ideals, and government. It includes philosophy, higher education, psychology, and all forms of study of the mind, notably through dreams and visions. The ninth house is the house of long mental voyages and intellectual speculation, of foreign lands and foreigners, and of long trips and high commerce. It's the house of expansion, of reaching out to the masses, as well as the house of advertising and publishing. The ninth house opens up a larger vision of life: it questions the meaning of death and aspires to describe the indescribable. The house of continuity, it ensures the preservation of heritage through rituals and symbols. The house of life's lessons, it fosters objectivity and knowledge.

*

Marie felt the need to understand. “Alright, but when it happens, what is it you're thinking is going to happen to you?”

“Hard to say. I just know that I feel real bad. My heart gets to beating a mile a minute, my legs go all rubbery, and I can hardly breathe. The first time, I thought I was about to have a heart attack. It's as though I'm about to faint or go crazy, one or the other. In an airplane, I'm afraid I'll start yelling or talking crazy and no one will understand.”

Delirium worries psychiatrists far less than it does the general population, which is quick to brand someone as crazy as soon as he or she manifests the slightest loss of reason. In some cases, delirium is a relatively harmless manifestation of an acute psychological sensitivity, while in others it's at the root of how we relate to the world. Hence the importance of distinguishing between circumstantial delirium and what we might call true delirium by paying closer attention to the psychological state of the delirious person. For example, delirium is considered perfectly normal when it appears as the expression of a mood or emotional state. Announcing that you could eat a horse instead of saying you're hungry is the expression of a feeling of well-being or exaltation and has nothing to do with a delirious illness. Poetic licence is of the same order: we stretch, we exaggerate the real in order to express it more clearly or to render it more picturesque. In the same way, anyone who is excited or confused may rave or ramble. But such a person is almost sure to return to her senses once her emotional equilibrium is reestablished. Thus, considering her particular fragility, it would not be abnormal for an agoraphobe aboard an airplane to become delirious in mid-flight. Or to burst into tears. Such irrational behaviour does not extend into all facets of that individual's life, however, with the same permanence and profound insistence that it does in the lives of people suffering from delusions, fantasies, hallucinations, or paranoid psychoses. In short, when it comes to delirium, we are all granted some leeway. Each of us has a right to our small deliriums.

*

I had a feeling the airplane story would lead to some confusion.

“Sure, but isn't fear in airplanes claustrophobia?”

“It's all related. That's why psychologists nowadays talk about panic disorder with or without agoraphobia. In my case it's with. Trouble is, I can have an attack pretty much anytime, whenever I have some distance to travel. And it doesn't have to be far. It can happen on an empty street, in a swimming pool, at the beach, at a red light, or in a forest. And in any kind of vehicle, too. Almost anywhere. In the literature, they call it psychological distance.” Marie was contemplating all this. I wanted to reassure her somehow.. “Anyway, there's lots of folks worse off than me. There's some that never leave their house alone. Others can't even be alone at home. At Agoraphobes Anonymous, I even heard of a woman who walks on all fours in her house, just so she doesn't have to see outside when she passes a window.”

“Lord in Heaven!”

“It's mostly women who've got it.”

“How's that you call it again? Angoraphobia?”

“A. Agoraphobia. In the worst cases, it can lead to depression, alcoholism, or suicide.”

“Well, sure, I guess it would.”

*

Phobias, or fears that develop into a system within the human psyche, belong to the family of anxiety neuroses. These arise and evolve in the affective aspect of the personality, just as psychosomatic disorders and psychoses do. Anxiety appears when there is a conflict between desire and fear — in Freud's words, it is born of the failed act — and acquires the status of a phobia when it becomes fixated on an idea, a situation, or an object that is mainly symbolic and reflects unacknowledged desires. Hence the power of attraction and fascination that the core of the phobia holds over its victim. Hence also the potential for the phobia to become the centre of the individual's thoughts, and even an obsession. In the end, it is avoidance behaviour that confirms a phobia. The affected individual will always flee from any situation that evokes the tumultuous conflict rooted in their unconscious, a conflict the management of which, even when it is inadequate, especially when it is inadequate, requires an uncommon effort.

More than a hundred phobias have been catalogued, some having greater consequence than others. Some are relatively widespread, others may surprise at first but their potential is quickly recognized once you think about it: triskaidekaphobia, for example, the fear of seating thirteen people around a table; or autodysosmophobia, the fear of smelling bad; or even basophobia, the fear of having to walk. We can recognize the humour inherent in phobias without necessarily denigrating those who are terrorized by them.