The rows of stained glass windows in our church are pretty and meaningful, but they pose problems for folks in the congregation like me who struggle with claustrophobia.
Not being able to see outside makes me uneasy. I have to resort to some kind of meditation that puts my mind in a different place. Somewhere bright and open like the beach or on a lake fishing.
Sometimes when I seem completely engrossed in things around me, I’m pulling in a big bream. God forgives us for things like that I think when we are claustrophobic.
If I get stuck in the middle of a row at church or anywhere else with people closing in on me from both sides, sweat starts forming on my head and I have trouble breathing.
Regina understands all that so she goes places early to get me a seat on the aisle. Aisles feel like escape hatches and provide a little breathing room.
Airplane travel is challenging at best and impossible without an aisle seat. Being jammed into middle or window seats creates panic, especially if the window shades are closed.
Most airplane windows stay covered now so passengers can see movies, videos and things on their phones, laptops and the airlines’ in-flight entertainment systems.
People in window seats get to decide if the shades stay open or closed. Those of us on the aisle have to live with their decisions. If the windows are covered, I think of fishing and beaches.
Experts on these things say most people with claustrophobia have it as kids and it gets better as they grow older. It was not a problem for me growing up.
I hid in dark closets, toolsheds and even underground culverts in make-believe wars, western movie reenactments and other games, and it never bothered me.
Our country church, Calvary Baptist, had plain glass windows. We could watch birds and squirrels in the oak trees while Brother Carraway sang Nail Scarred Hand. On hot days, the windows were pushed up to let fresh air in. Claustrophobia was not an issue.
My first experience with the condition was in college in the 1960s. Five of us in the athletic dorm piled into Mickey Parker’s Chevy Bel Air to go to a football game in Shreveport. I was in the middle of the back seat between two big linemen.
It was cold outside and cool in the car, but I was sweating and it was hard to breathe. Everything got back to normal when we got out of the car at the stadium.
I think I remember googling my condition when we got back to the dorm and discovering that it was claustrophobia.
It has bothered me ever since. We were touring a Missouri cave with the grandkids a while back, and they had to send a golf cart to get me back into the sunlight.
Regina and I were in Asheville, North Carolina, and decided to drive over to Chimney Rock Park where The Last of the Mohicans was filmed. The admission cost to the mountaintop was pretty steep.
I couldn’t make myself get in the steel elevator surrounded by solid rock, and Regina hates heights anyway. We left without going on the mountain and gave our tickets to folks coming in.
There’s an elevator in the stadium where I work. I got on it to check the press box one Friday afternoon before a Saturday game. There was nobody around, and the elevator stopped between floors.
Nobody knew I was there, and that was before cell phones. I was sweating, yelling, gasping for breath and pushing the button. It finally started, but that was one of the worst hours of my life.
That was 30 years ago, and I have not been back on the elevator. It’s a long walk up the steps to the boxes where I go for games, but it’s in the open air.
The grandkids don’t know about claustrophobia, and I don’t plan to mention it to them. But they don’t understand why I try to hide in wide open places in their big hide and seek games instead of getting in closets or under beds with them.
Regina is sympathetic. She still gets me aisle seats at church and is learning to sleep with lights on and windows open.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES