My Journey with Chronic Illness: Panic Disorder
Or, life when it isn’t enough to just have anxiety
On the surface, agoraphobia seems exotic — like something you only hear about on television documentaries or in relation to a long-reclusive aging personality in gossip columns.
Don’t let it fool you. It loves the little guys like us, too.
If you haven’t read the first installment in this series, click here to catch up: My Journey with Chronic Illness: Generalized Anxiety.
Agoraphobia loves me.
One of my favorite movies is Beetlejuice. The concept that you call his name three times in quick succession to summon him always comes to mind when I think about agoraphobia.
It’s not that I want to will it into appearing. It’s that I’m worried that there’s some trick to summoning it — that I am the one bringing it back so that it can consume me. That fear keeps me moving toward health.
Agoraphobia hunted me down.
When I had my first panic attack, I thought I was dying. It’s very common considering the rising pulse, chest pains, and inability to breathe that plagues you. Fear is a common thing, and it teaches your brain to rewire itself in terrible ways.
With each panic attack, I became more and more fearful.
If I had a panic attack at a crowded store, I would avoid crowds. Later I would avoid stores. If one came on when I was driving, I’d immediately be afraid to get behind the wheel again.
I didn’t drive for three months the first time agoraphobia snatched me into its claws.
With every move I made, it was there, lurking over my shoulder. All of my decisions became clouded around the idea that I wasn’t safe outside my home because of these attacks.
Inside, I could suffer in silence without the stares of people avoiding the crying woman with shaking hands.
Life changed drastically.
I began dropping my responsibilities at church and in our homeschool group. No one knew why because I wasn’t being honest with my struggles. I wanted to maintain the idea that I was an independent adult, not the person that I was becoming. I was hiding.
I stopped driving. I couldn’t cook, much less shop, for my family. My house was becoming my prison — a very cluttered and dark prison.
If my husband or daughters had to leave, my mother would come sit with me or I was in state of heightened panic until he returned. Life was spinning out of control, and I was slipping into the role of a child to be taken care of.
Rescue meds were my best friend.
I speak in terms of anxiety and panic attacks as if they are completely separate. They can vary from person to person. In my case, I suffered from a heightened sense of anxiety that never went away yet could escalate into severe attacks with no apparent cause.
It took nearly six months to find a good medication to help me control it. Until then, I relied on rescue meds for the times that the panic attacks pushed me over the edge.
I remember sitting on the couch, my legs crossed like I sat in elementary school, with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I rocked, slowly, back and forth. I was unable to focus on the movie we were watching or the conversation my mother was trying to have with me. All I could see was the time on the DVD player.
I counted down the minutes.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes came, and shortly after that the switch was flipped. My panic started to subside.
The world came back into focus, and I felt like I was going to live for another six hours.
When it was time for the anxiety medication to wear off, I started counting in reverse. Thirty minutes. Twenty minutes. Ten minutes until the monster came back to get me.
It was a terrible existence.
So many people misunderstood.
I’m thankful that my mother was a constant support. My (now) ex-husband tried his best, but my behavior didn’t make sense to him. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to control my anxiety and keep pushing forward through the fear. The stress of taking care of me took a toll on our marriage.
It took a toll on all of my relationships.
So many people from church urged me to pray. Yes, I was. Yes, I believe in the power of prayer. However, I also believe in the idea that sometimes things like this happen to people simply because of chemistry and health.
It wasn’t because I was weak. And it wasn’t because my faith was failing.
It just was.
Agoraphobia came for me again about five years after this. The second time I knew what to look for, so I saw the signs. I rallied my energy and went to battle, contacting my doctor and letting my family know how they could help me.
It was hard, but I won.
Today, life is good.
I’m so blessed to have made it through to the other side of this desert. I was lucky in a sense because I never turned to thoughts of self harm like many who battle this invisible demon.
If you are contemplating it, please reach out for help. So many of us have been where you are. We are proof that the storm passes.
I haven’t had a battle with it in five years, but I’m not going to get cocky about it. I’ll stay ever vigilant, knowing that I need to be aware that monsters do lurk under the bed — if I don’t take care of myself.
As a writer and invisible illness advocate, I spent a lot of time working at home. As part of my healthy ideal, I’ve learned that I must integrate a few habits into my life.
- I meet a friend once a week for a coffee/work date.
- I schedule errands on different days so that I leave the house regularly.
- When the weather is good, I step outside for a while or open the windows to let the outside in.
I live.
But there’s one thing to take away from this experience: If I ever do go back to that place, it will not be permanent. I will fight, and I will win.
Agoraphobia will not own me.
Resources
If you or someone you know struggles with agoraphobia, know that there are resources that can help. For instance, try:
- SupportGroups.com — Meet online with others who share your same “invisible” battles.
- Anxiety and Depression Association of America — Learn coping techniques, find out ways to handle the fear, and locate other resources that may be local to you.
- The Anxiety Coach — Read some good tips about being an active part of your healing process (and why retreating from the world only makes the problem worse.)
- Anxiety Care UK — This site has some great information for your family and friends so they know how to support you.
You are not alone. We are part of a super team who fight our invisible illnesses every day. Spoonies stick together.
Always remember: You are loved.
Do you have a story to share? I’d love to hear about your journey and how I can support you. Tell me in the comments below.
Stephanie Pitcher Fishman is a writer, blogger, and mom living with chronic illness, a mid-life baby, and a coffee addiction. She writes about fake people (fiction), dead people (family history and genealogy), and sick people (herself included.) Read more at writerbloggermom.com and say hi on Twitter.
