My claustrophobia started with something that seemed insignificant: I got stuck in a locked bathroom at university and afterwards felt a bit uncomfortable when it came to locking toilet doors. From that small incident, things spiralled quickly. At my lowest point, I couldn’t get on a bus or train, or even walk through a revolving door. 

Everyday things became a living nightmare. Using public toilets was out of the question as I could no longer face toilet doors (closing them, not just locking them). I also couldn’t face lifts, the Tube, most other forms of transport, tunnels, cinemas, hotel rooms with windows that didn’t open far enough and underground bars. My life necessitated an exhausting level of planning, poring over Google Maps’ street view any time I had a client meeting, a friend’s birthday or work event to see if the building looked like it had any confined spaces. Claustrophobia isn’t mainstream enough for there to be official markers or badges to look out for (there’s no claustrophobia equivalent of the wheelchair-accessible sign, for example, even though there are many, many of us out there). “Does this building look Phoebe-friendly?” I’d ask my patient boyfriend. 

My own meeting prep rarely had anything to do with what I’d be presenting in the actual meeting; instead, it meant plotting a non-claustrophobic journey to the venue (you don’t want to see my Uber bill), calling reception to see if there were stairs and requesting conference rooms with windows. At times, I’d arrive at a museum or office building to find a revolving door or, worse still, lift-only access. My life became about sweet-talking patient security guards, begging them to walk me up the fire escape stairs to let me out at the other end.

One of the cruellest things about phobias is that they aren’t linear: you can be thriving one minute and back to square one the next. While I was at business school in Amsterdam in 2018, I made it my mission to combat claustrophobia. I mapped out a strategy and came up with lists filled with lifts I would conquer, Metros I would master and toilet doors I’d learn to lock. And so I got to work. With the help of bemused but unfailingly supportive friends, I rode one lift at my local Metro stop 136 times in one month, ticking off a checklist on my fridge. One week later, I was walking past the Metro and thought I’d head in for a quick lift ride (I promise, I’m the life of the party) and I just couldn’t bring myself to get in. Back to square one yet again. 

Cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) wasn’t working, so it was time to try other options. As a child, I was scared of dogs, and one 45-minute visit to a hypnotherapist was enough to cure me forever. I went back to the same hypnotherapist a number of times for claustrophobia but this time nothing happened. It was the same with acupuncture: one practitioner told me she’d cure me in a single session and then blamed me when I couldn’t get in the lift with her afterwards. I also booked four sessions with a Harley Street ‘therapist to the stars’, whose claim to fame was that he’d once cured someone of their fear of flying in under 10 minutes. The sessions did nothing for me: another chunk of money down the drain. Claustrophobia 7 – 0 Phoebe. 

After reading How To Change Your Mind, the book that inspired the Netflix show of the same name, I was convinced psychedelics would be the answer. I’ve spent most of my life in Amsterdam and have always been interested in the use of controlled drugs in mental health treatment. I booked in with a reputable clinic in the Dutch capital, where the treatment is legal, and they sent a therapist to lead me through a six-hour trip. I’ll admit it was the most fun cure I tried, but it didn’t have any impact on the claustrophobia. I spent my six hours lying in bed, hallucinating wildly. One minute, the therapist morphed into Fiona, Shrek’s wife; the next, I was on the set of Modern Family. I kept a notebook by my side throughout, ready to write down the insights provided by my subconscious as to how I could finally see the back of my claustrophobia, and all I scribbled was: “Get over it, bitch xoxo.” 

Psychedelic therapy was my last-ditch effort and when that didn’t work, I was deflated. The rest of my life was going well – I was engaged to an amazing guy and running a successful business – but all I really wanted was to be able to get on a bus. 

So, what was it that worked in the end? I took the decidedly less sexy approach of tracking down a psychiatrist with the right expertise. I showed up defeated and exhausted, explaining that I’d tried everything, but nothing had worked. I’d short-sightedly written off medication after 18 months on Sertraline offered no relief, but my new psychiatrist prescribed a different type of anti-anxiety medication, which worked wonders within a week. 

Bolstered by my new-found calm, my claustrophobia more or less disappeared overnight – a sentence I never thought I’d get to write. It’s hard to put into words how much easier and fun life is now that I no longer have to meticulously plan every journey I take. One of the worst things about claustrophobia was how it messed with my sense of self. I’m generally a confident person, so being paralysed with fear at the idea of taking a bus didn’t feel on brand. 

If you’re going through something similar and you’re in a situation where you’re panicking, ask for help. I’ve lost count of the Tube staff, security guards and shop assistants who’ve accompanied me in a lift, held toilet doors for me or even brought me a bottle of water when I was midway through a panic attack. You won’t always get lucky, and there are definitely some unfriendly people out there, but for the most part, strangers are happy to help. 

And speak to a professional as soon as you can. Mental illness is no joke, and you need specialist support to help you get through it. While it was the medication that eventually did the trick for me, other one-off sessions I had with experts definitely had a positive impact or taught me coping mechanisms that I keep with me today. Try everything you can, and eventually you’ll find the solution that works for you. 

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: courtesy of Phoebe Dodds