“Agoraphobia is when a stranger enters the house and you go to the attic and lie down with your face pressed into the darkest corner, under the slanting slats of the roof. It’s the scream lurking in your gorge, so ready to burst that the least noise above a cat’s purr makes you tremble: when the marching band from the high school practices in the street outside you sit in the back of the closet, when the March wind lashes the treetops at night you crawl behind the sofa. Agoraphobia is when every night at 2:00 a.m. for five years—that’s 1,825 nights—you go out loaded with Thorazine to walk in the street beneath the dark, blank windows of the houses on either side, and you never get more than a hundred yards from your door. Agoraphobia is when you breathe and eat the dust of oblivion" (Hayden Carruth).
“I’ve read that trauma is always in the present tense. The body marries the then with the now. Like radical politics, the body knows not gradation. There is safe and there is danger. There is inside and outside, friend and enemy, stay out or flee. I’m either on the verge of agoraphobia–I think–or a spiritual awakening” (Dodie Bellamy).