My first panic attack was before we had language for panic attacks. I was driving in the rain, a car load of kids, husband, luggage, food, and a tandem bike strapped on top of a little VW Rabbit. Everything was fine. But as I drove I KNEW that we were about to lose all control and be killed. I knew it. Knew. It. I nearly made it so, from knowing it. A rational passenger talked me down enough to pull over. I didn’t know that was an option.Panic is a blind, narrow, liar with no options. Years later, with language and a name, I understood this to be a panic attack.
Once I had that reference point, a flood of memories from my whole life rushed into the stadium to watch that punk band called Panic Attack. So much made sense. Having a name for it helps in the management of them.
I don’t have them frequently. Maybe one every couple of years. Now I know what is happening, and I can breathe, center, and live through it. Sort of like hot flashes in menopause. Really. My rational mind is still active during a panic attack, often cowering in the far corner, and I have to push it to the front row so it can be heard.
Last night, I had a panic attack. There I was, in my comfy cozy bed. My little dog, Alfie, was snuggled in and all was well. I am able to fall asleep easily, almost every night. But last night, I began to churn with a current situation, and the churning got thicker and thicker, layer upon layer of thoughts and worries and a convincing that I was doomed. I tried to pray but the thoughts were like a layered onslaught and my prayers became part of the garbled mixture. My physiology began to match my mental turmoil; heart racing, breath marathoning. Alfie stood up, looked at me from over his shoulder, and moved to the far side of the bed.
That was enough for me to come up for air. It was just a sec, but I gulped enough realism in that breath that I thought “I must be putting off some awful vibes for Alfie to move.” My own being threw me a life preserver, and I had a second thought, “I’m having a panic attack.”
With mind, heart, breath roiling still, I began to focus on my breath. In and out. Focus on my nose. My Buddhist mentor’s words were with me, and I kept my focus on my nose, right where the air goes in and then out. As I focused on the breath, I felt like I was covered in thick, sticky mud, trying to wash myself free, while still in the middle of the mud pit.
And slowly, I felt it dissolve. And I fell asleep.
Upon waking, the issues are still present, but the panic is not.
The action of panic is real. But the threat the panic induces is not. I am not doomed. I am not drowning in layers of what ifs. I’m not. There are lots of what ifs, but I’m not drowning.
I am fine. All will be well. All is well. And Alfie came back. I had enough presence of heart to know he was simply being self protective from what was pouring out of me. I don’t blame him. I felt it inside.
A panic attack is a real thing. But panic is a blind, narrow, no option liar.
Breathing with you,
Amy