My claustrophobia started with something that seemed insignificant: I got stuck in a locked bathroom at university and afterwards felt a bit uncomfortable when it came to locking toilet doors. From that small incident, things spiralled quickly. At my lowest point, I couldn’t get on a bus or train, or even walk through a revolving door.

Everyday things became a living nightmare. Using public toilets was out of the question as I could no longer face toilet doors (closing them, not just locking them). I also couldn’t face lifts, the Tube, most other forms of transport, tunnels, cinemas, hotel rooms with windows that didn’t open far enough and underground bars. My life necessitated an exhausting level of planning, poring over Google Maps’ street view any time I had a client meeting, a friend’s birthday or work event to see if the building looked like it had any confined spaces. Claustrophobia isn’t mainstream enough for there to be official markers or badges to look out for (there’s no claustrophobia equivalent of the wheelchair-accessible sign, for example, even though there are many, many of us out there). “Does this building look Phoebe-friendly?” I’d ask my patient boyfriend.

“Claustrophobia meant I couldn’t get on a bus or use a toilet cubicle for years”