Writing Through a Panic Attack

I don’t know whether I like writing this blog or not.

It’s hard writing about feeling crap all the time. It’s hard writing about feeling weak.

I don’t even know whether I’m writing this for myself or for someone else who might read it one day and think, “Thank God, it’s not just me.”

Maybe that’s enough.

I just write and see what happens.

I’m writing today’s blog during the comedown of yet another panic attack.

This one came out of nowhere.

Well… that’s not entirely true.

The Anxiety Grenade

It exploded out of nowhere, but it’s been brewing for a few days. I’ve felt it lurking in the background. A couple of times I’ve felt it building but managed to calm myself before it took over.

This afternoon there was no stopping it.

It feels like someone has thrown a grenade into your body. The fragments are everywhere. the explosion started in my stomach with a wave of adrenaline or fear, I'm not sure which, it's instant and it's terrifying. Your brain immediately goes into triage mode, racing from symptom to symptom, trying to work out which one is the real danger. Your chest. Your stomach. Your breathing. Your shoulder. Your neck. You don’t know where to look first because your whole body feels like a disaster zone.

All of a sudden you dont feel like yourself and you are a blur of yourself watching from the outside.

I know the drill now, there is no stopping it you just have to go through it.

I tried distracting myself by going into the garden and clearing away some leaves and debris, this is progress, but the panic kept knocking at the door.

My legs started wobbling underneath me.

My stomach bloated like it was about to burst.

I felt sick.

My heart raced.

My breathing became short and fast.

My chest so tight, I think this is it. Then an electric bolt shoots out my chest.

I started talking to myself.

“It’s okay. We’ve been here before, This isn't a heart attck"

But then that other voice appeared.

“This is the one that’s finally going to get you.”

“Oh shut up, you idiot. You said that last time.”

“Yeah… but this one feels different.”

It always feels different.

“Come on, you big hairy bastard, you’ve got this.”

That’s what I call my anxiety now.

The big hairy bastard.

It helps me separate it from me.

I’m not having the panic attack.

My body is.

It’s going to do whatever it thinks it needs to do, and all I can do is ride it out and hope we can get on with the rest of the day afterwards.

The panic keeps climbing.

The sensations get stronger.

Your body starts shaking.

Your thoughts race.

You tell yourself you’re okay while every part of your body is screaming that you’re not.

Sometimes I cry.

Sometimes I get angry.

Sometimes I get irritated with the people trying to help me. They can't help me, even as much as they want to and probably ate seeing me go through it too.

Sometimes I just think…

“For fuck’s sake. Not again.”

Then comes the guilt.

“I thought I was doing better.”

“I haven’t had one this bad for a while.”

But if I’m honest, it’s been bubbling under the surface.

Then my brain starts scanning my body.

What’s that pain in my shoulder?

Why is my stomach swelling up?

What’s that buzzing feeling behind my ear running down my neck?

Why are my shoulder blades so tight?

How can all of this be happening at once?

Then another thought arrives.

“If I keep thinking like this, I’m making it worse.”

So what do I do?

You can’t stop it.

You have to go through it.

Don’t fight it.

Don’t beat yourself up.

Just let it burn itself out.

But then another thought sneaks in.

“Yeah… but another one’s coming.”

“I don’t want to do this again.”

Then the sensible voice finally speaks up.

“Maybe.”

“But that panic attack isn’t here yet.”

“Let’s just get through this one first.”

Then another thought pops into my head.

Why am I talking like there are two of us?

Am I going mad?

No.

I’m just trying to survive.

That’s what panic does.

It splits your mind into two voices.

The frightened one.

And the one desperately trying to keep the frightened one alive.

My thoughts race.

My body feels like it’s exploding.Another Grenade hits.

Panic.

Anxiety.

Honestly…

Fuck both of them.

…

Then I remember something I’ve been trying so hard to learn.

Anxiety is my Friend!

The Big Hairy Bastard is my Bodyguard, he's just over protective and always on guard. He never sleeps!

I’m supposed to stop fighting him, he's on my side.

I’m supposed to stop treating him like the enemy.

Even when every instinct is telling me to run.

I’m supposed to meet all of this with kindness.Maybe I should go and watch Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston and see how they figured it out?

Maybe that’s the hardest lesson anxiety has to teach.

Not how to stop being afraid.

But how to love yourself while you are.

There is no point beating myself up or waiting for the next one to happen. I'll just deal with it when it does. I'm trying to be indifferent to it. Take away its power. It's working for now....

Remember the only way out is through!