Agoraphobia Kept Me Inside. Real Estate Listings Helped Me Escape.

While my anxiety disorder had me trapped, Redfin allowed me to imagine all the places I could go

Photo: rinatus (rinatus)/500px/Getty Images

In 2013, I developed agoraphobia with panic disorder. I was living in California at the time, but was still able to move to Minnesota in 2014 with a guy I’d been dating for a year and a half. Once I settled in the Midwest, my symptoms worsened to the point where I couldn’t drive on the freeway or in the left lane, take elevators, stand in lines, fly, or go to the grocery store. If I traveled more than five miles from home, I’d have a panic attack. I still haven’t seen the ocean in five years.

I was in a constant state of fight or flight that sequestered me in my home on the worst days. To ease my symptoms, I disassociated from my ever-narrowing life by binge drinking and browsing real estate online from my couch in Minneapolis.

In these fugue states, I spent hours tumbling down the Redfin rabbit hole. I’d “tour” homes in different cities — a Nevada City Victorian, a converted lighthouse off the coast of Washington — and fantasize about leaving my wine-drenched life behind. I’d wonder: Could that rambler in Nashville make me whole again? What about that loft in Boston with exposed brick walls?

My biggest obsession was moving to New Orleans. I’d lust after variegated shotguns and “explore” Big Easy neighborhoods via Google Maps, picturing myself smoking a cigarette on my porch and waving to tourists. Even though I’d never been, I could easily list off each neighborhood and its respective characteristics (The oaks of the Garden District! The potholes of the Tremé!) as though I’d lived there for years.

In 2016, I applied to Tulane University and got in. I wanted to study social work in the city that exemplified resilience in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. I wanted to ask New Orleans herself: How do you recover after a flood knocks your levees down? How do you peel back the weeds that have grown so tall in the wake of a hurricane that they engulf entire neighborhoods as king snakes and rattlesnakes slither through the vegetation?

Comparing my personal anguish to that of a hurricane that left more than 204,000 homes destroyed and at least 1,836 people dead feels selfish. It wasn’t a matter of comparison, though. I just wanted to escape the personal hell I’d built up in Minnesota and find my old self again in a city with the opposite climate. I wanted to quietly wander the streets — some revitalized, others neglected due to racial segregation — and see how you’re supposed to reassemble in the wake of a natural disaster. I wanted to trace the still-standing walls with my fingertips; not in a desperate attempt to stabilize myself, but to absorb the lessons of buildings that stood tall amidst the rubble. I wanted to ask: Who are you, and how did you survive?

I didn’t go to Tulane. I’ve still never been to New Orleans.