I
remembertheday
wearrivedsoclearly
becauseI thoughtthis
wasgoingtobea real
turningpointinmylife,
movingtotheothersideof
theworldhavingaccepted
thisjob.
I thoughtit wasgoingto
beabsolutelyfabulousand
everythingI’deverdreamed
of,butfromthedayI arrived,
I justhadthissensethat
maybeI haddonethewrong
thingandthatfeelingnever
leftme.
Atfirst,I putit down
tobeinghomesickforNew
Zealandandneedingtoadjust
tosettlingintoa newhouse
ina newcountrywitha new
job– butlookingback,I knew
fromthatfirstdaythiswas
nottherightthingforme.OnonestiflingSunday
inJuly,I foundmyselfinthe
carparkoftheEurotunnel
terminalinCalaisamong
hundredsofholidaymakers,
whoweresittingonthegrass,
orwalkingtheirdogsor
chasingtheirchildren.All
thetrainsweredelayed.
I walkedincirclesaround
thecarpark,besidemyself
withfearandanxiety,unable
toreturntomyowncarto
waitwithmyhusbandand
sonforthefinalpartofour
longjourneybackfroma
holidayinthesouthofFrance.
I’dhada badexperiencein
thewomen’stoilets,havingto
usea filthy,horriblystained
cubicle– andnowI wanted
topulloffmyownskin.
I couldthinkonlyofthe
possiblecontaminationtoW
W
Faci n
which I had been exposed in
the cubicle and which I was
now powerless to expunge.
The stains clinging to the rim
of the toilet bowl, unnoticed
until I had locked the door
and thus already entered –
and touched. A space that
could carry contagion,
infection and disease.
I had, of course, repeatedly
rubbed sanitiser over my
hands until they were grainy
with it, unable to absorb
any more gel, but I had no
confidence that I was safe.
In autumn that same year,
I received an invitation to
speak at a symposium in
my favourite region of Italy,
all expenses paid. On the
morning of my departure for
the event, I stopped to have a
coffee with my husband on
my way to the airport.
As we stood at the counter
waiting to be served, I heard
the young barista say to his
supervisor, “Send me home,
I shouldn’t be here.” He was
laughing as he said this and
his supervisor seemed not to
take him seriously, but was he
in fact unwell? Did he have
something contagious? Would
my coffee be safe to drink?
Could I then embark on an
international trip alone,
knowing that I could be
incubating some nasty bug
that could strike me down
in transit, in public, in an
unfamiliar place?
At that moment, I knewI would not be attending the
symposium. I would take my
suitcase home again and
unpack all the clothes I had
neatly folded that morning.
I have a history of
depression and when I start
to slide, that is when other
things like phobias can really
take hold because I lose the
capacity to challenge those
fears and they become all-
encompassing.
I suspect there are a lot
of people like me who are
high-functioning phobics.
My professional life was
very important to me, so as
much as I possibly could,
I tried to soldier on through
the phobias, and that just
leaves you drained and
exhausted from trying to
think up ways to circumvent
the phobias, trying to avoid
touching things and not
end up a complete quivering
mess of anxiety.
You do become very
good at hiding it by leading
a double life. A lot of people
told me they had no idea I
was experiencing this phobia
because I had all sorts of
ways of covering it up.
Looking back, the one
thing that really did make
a difference early on was
getting medication. Once the
depression lifted, the next
stage in my recovery was
when I was able to start
writing about it.
I didn’t set out to write a“
34 Woman’s Day