"In most cases, agoraphobia begins in the early stages of adulthood, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. This is how it differs from most other phobias which have their roots in the subject's childhood. In fact, it rarely occurs in children at all. However, childhood anxieties such as school phobia or a fear of leaving parents may sensitize someone to agoraphobia later in life. Either case can reflect a generally fearful nature."
Dr. Jonathan Crane, adorned in an expensive Italian suit, stood lecturing his psychology class in a musty old classroom at Gotham University. The room was quite expansive with a hardwood floor, rich mahogany walls, and tall windows that let the sunlight pour in over the rows of tiered seats where his students sat stiffly, barely paying attention. Crane didn't care, though. The very subject of his speech fascinated him and if these pathetic simpletons couldn't appreciate what he had to share with them, then it was their own loss.
Pausing a moment to adjust his rectangular glasses, he continued, "For most, a sudden and spontaneous panic attack is to blame for their onset of agoraphobia. Panic attacks, as we all know, are—." Suddenly the bell signaling the end of the period cut him off and the room filled with a cacophony of screeching seats, shuffling papers, and bustling feet. As they hurried to leave, Crane attempted to be heard above the din. "Don't forget to read Adler, pages two forty-seven through two ninety-three!" As they left, he took a moment to reflect on how unworthy they were of his time. All but one. Phoebe Watson, the only student who paid attention to what he had to teach, was a bright, clever young woman who always had something constructive to add to his lessons. It was clear to Crane that she would go far in the psychology world.
Footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, he crossed the room to his large oak desk and began packing up his lesson plan, notes, and various other papers into his ever-present briefcase. Made from the finest black leather, the case was one of his prized possessions and he never let it out of his sight, even for a moment.
As Crane sat in the quiet tranquillity of the deserted classroom, he ran a hand through his dark brown locks and peered at the door out of the corner of his eye. He was alone. Taking a key from his pocket, he set his briefcase on the floor beside his chair and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. Slowly reaching inside, he pulled out a small black binder, overflowing with reports, hastily scribbled notes, and photocopied articles. Opening the binder, he poured over the material, immersing himself in his life's work.
Ever since he was a boy, Crane had been fascinated by fear. What caused it? Why was it so prevalent? How could it be conquered? The binder was a log of his studies, the product of all his research, and the guidebook for his own theory. A subject could conquer his fears through gradual exposure to a limited stimulus. Logically, Crane thought, if a subject were exposed to an enormous and prolonged stimulus, the sudden jolt would shock the subject out of their terror. It could be done, he knew it could be done. The only question in his mind was "how?"
Unconsciously, he began mumbling to himself as he searched his notes for some answer, some clue that had previously eluded him. "Some kind of drug therapy…" he muttered. "Something that could be easily administered to increase anxiety and induce panic…" A lightbulb suddenly clicked on in his head. "Anxiogenic drugs, that's it." He began flipping furiously through pages in the binder, trying to find the appropriate notes. "Let's see, anxiogenics, anxiogenics… Ah, here!" Stabbing his finger down on the page, he began reading to himself. The right hemispherical amygdala is responsible for the brain's "fear" response as well as a host of other negative emotions. He needed a drug that stimulated the right amygdala, or at least suppressed the left, which produces positive emotions.
He continued his feverish search, trying to find some other reference to the amygdala in relation to drug therapy. Before he could finish, the classroom door banged open and Crane jumped in his seat, heart racing. "What in God's name do you think you're doing, can't you see I'm busy?" he snarled at the interloper. Standing in the doorway was a man in a dark blue janitor's coverall holding a mop. Behind him in the hallway sat a wheeled-bucket of soapy water.
The janitor looked meekly between Crane and the clock on the wall, stammering, "I-I'm sorry Doctor… but don't you think it's getting a bit late?" Crane looked to the wall and saw that it was well past seven o'clock; he'd been sitting there for over four hours. Grudgingly, he placed the binder back in the drawer, locked it, and stormed out of the classroom, briefcase in hand. He'd felt so close!
The following morning, Crane felt cheerful as he strolled across the Gotham U. campus. The sun shone brightly, birds chirped merrily, and students chattered whatever it was students chattered about. He felt as though nothing could spoil his mood. Then the football hit him in the back of the head. Crane staggered forward, more out of surprise than the actual force of the blow. He turned, his icy blue eyes blazing and an expression of rage on his youthful features. "Who threw that?" he demanded.
As Crane expected, the school's starting quarterback, Greg Hammond, jogged up to retrieve the ball. "Sorry about that, Dr. Crane," the boy apologized, mock sincerely. "Guess it just got away from me." Greg was one of Crane's more inattentive students, with the worst grades in the class. He was a full head taller than the doctor and twice as wide. He generally relied on his size for intimidation, something that didn't work on Crane.
"A likely story. I'll see you in class." At that, Crane turned and marched angrily the rest of the way to the psychology department, overhearing the athletes' referring to him as "Scarecrow". His cheeks burned at the nickname; like his fascination with fear, the label had stuck with him since childhood, his scrawny build the constant target of bullies and their ilk.
After an hour of preparation, it was time for Crane's first class of the day. He stepped into the classroom and headed toward his desk at a brisk walk, the buzz of conversations covering his footsteps. "I hope you all did your reading last night," he said, setting his briefcase down on the smooth oak finish. "Because I will be asking questions throughout today's lesson." Sitting down, he noticed Greg, sitting in the back, lean over to his friend and whisper something, a grin spread across his young face. Surely just another scarecrow joke the peon found amusing.
Sitting down, Crane opened the top drawer of his desk and immediately let out an annoyed sigh. Standing back up, he held up what had been staring back up at him from the drawer: an old scarecrow's head made of burlap with a length of rope tied in a hangman's knot around it's neck and the straw taken out. Its mouth was stitched in a wicked, almost manic-looking grin and its eyes were ragged holes cut in the cloth. Addressing the class, his voice thick with irritation, he asked, "Who's responsible for this?" Crane looked across the seated group, all of them silent, some trying to hide their laughter, others looking appalled by the grotesque mask.
"I've heard all the jokes and whispers and impersonations," Crane went on, growing more and more annoyed as they continued to deny any complicity in the act. He had a hunch it was Greg, that smug, overbearing, jock. "No one wants to step forward?" He paused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine. By tomorrow morning you will each have a twenty page essay on Jungian archetypes on my desk with complete works cited." He paused as his class let out a collective groan. "I want you to focus on how they affect one's perceptions of their relationships with themselves and others." Setting the scarecrow mask beside his briefcase, he changed the subject, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Now, let's continue our discussion of agoraphobia and its causes, shall we?"
That night, Crane brought the binder home with him. He sat in his study, the walls lined with psychology books like some mansion's personal library. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and the knot of his tie loosened, he desperately flipped through pages, looking for the secret to testing his theory.
Need more information, can't find anything on stimulating the amygdala without electrical current. That's completely out of the question for what I hope to achieve. Some other type of drug, something to produce anxiety and, with it, fear… Sodium lactate! That's it! It can be injected directly into the bloodstream and produces panic attacks in anxiety prone individuals.
He removed his glasses and ran a hand over his tired face. He'd been at it for hours now, well on past midnight. Unfortunately it has no affect in "normal" people. It needs to be coupled with something, something to make a person feel afraid, then the sodium lactate can turn that into full blown terror… A hallucinogen, perhaps… Something potent but non addictive. Let's see… hallucinations… hallucinogens… Lysergic acid diethylamide sounds promising; can be injected along with the sodium lactate, non addictive, effects last eight to ten hours, and it's the most potent hallucinogenic drug known to man. Dimethyltryptamine also looks promising. Acquiring them, though, that'll be the tricky part… A thin smile crossed his lips. Like I'm going to let a little thing like legality stand between me and greatness. His methods would propel modern psychology and treatment of phobias and fears into a grand new era of understanding, he just knew it. Tiredly, he glanced over at the burlap mask sitting on his desk, grinning back at him. "I'll be more famous than Freud," he told it. It just kept on grinning.