03/11/2024
Cleithrophobia: The phobia or fear of being trapped. The term comes from the Greek cleithro, meaning to shut or close. “People with cleithrophobia may feel fear when they are locked in a small space such as a bathroom stall” – CBT Denver
I have always hated the term “locked in”. I associate it with the teenage boys I taught over the summer. It has always seemed such a ridiculous way to say “focused”. I also hate the term “locked in” because I have instantly negative emotions towards the idea of being locked in anywhere.
When I was about seven, I was sleeping over in my older sister’s room when the handle of her door fell off. And I mean it fell apart in my hands. I got so anxious that I vomited on her floor, an act she has, to this day, never forgiven me for. In that moment, I imagined myself never being able to escape that room, shrivelling away as I was stuck without food or water, trapped forever. This was a fate I regularly had nightmares about, thanks to the CBBC show Trapped, which implied in each episode that the participants who didn’t escape were trapped forever in a tower. It seemed such a lonely fate, to die trapped somewhere.
This phobia has since evolved. At its worst, I’ve struggled to just be in a room where the door is just closed, regardless of whether it’s unlocked. Even at its best, I tend to be vaguely uncomfortable with locked doors. Lifts involve minutes of trying to stay calm and not claw at the door. Small spaces are overwhelming. But as with everything, I learned to deal with it. I told myself that it was a silly little fear.
And then… Sunday 3rd November. I awoke with a hangover and a stomach ache, thanks to far too much to drink at my college’s Halloween bop the night before. All I wanted to do was brush my teeth, crawl into acceptable clothes (I was still wearing my costume from the previous night), go to brunch with my friends, and get started on some reading for class. I headed to the bathroom, armed with only a toothbrush – this is an important detail. I finished brushing my teeth and turned to unlock the door.
Nothing. I tried again.
Nothing. The handle turned, but the lock wouldn’t move. It was 8 A.M. After a bop. Knowing my college, people might not be awake for another four hours.
I started yelling. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled that loudly, for that long, in my life. I pounded on the door until my hands turned red. Within not too much time, some people in my building had gathered around the door to the toilet. I think I was probably in tears at this point.
It took over an hour for maintenance to come, since it was a Sunday. Over an hour spent in my nightmare scenario. Oddly enough, it felt like I’d done it before, having spent so many nights with the idea of it haunting my dreams.
We tried everything in that hour. A small part of me truly believed that I could kick down the door if I tried hard enough (this is coming from someone who has to ask her college wife to open jars for her). I tried to pry the anti-suicide lock off the window to open it enough to crawl out. I spent quite a significant part of the hour trying not to faint. Thankfully, someone was kind enough to pass my phone underneath the door, so I was able to rant nervously about the situation to my friends (who were all still sleeping soundly).
I am the sort of person who is always busy, always on the go. Potentially the only time I stop and think during term is in the shower, or in the ten minutes before I fall asleep at night. I don’t think anything else has made me stop and ponder just like being stuck in a small space for an hour did.
After the miracle maintenance man had come to save me – literally by cutting through the lock with a metal saw – I wrote the whole day off. I was shaking for a good five or six hours after the experience.
Why am I writing this? Partly, it is the job of the writer to entertain, and is it not entertaining to think of a stressed, hungover student locked in a bathroom? But Love Letters has always been about optimism.
I faced the worst fear of my life that day. And you know what? I was fine. I was shaken up, but I was completely fine. I didn’t die. An hour isn’t that long to spend somewhere. I think we let things trap us, we turn things into monsters and giants that haunt our dreams. Sometimes we need to just stop and get some perspective. Am I recommending that you face your fears? Absolutely not, that morning was fucking terrifying and I hope it never happens again! But sometimes, if we are forced into a scary situation, it is good to remember that we’re okay. We’ve survived up till now, and it’s likely we’ll survive again.