Painting of a Panic Attack

“What does a panic attack look like?” Somebody asked me this after my last instagram post. In short, it feels as though everything in your life has spun wildly out of control all at once.

It’s not just the big things, like work or relationships or finances. Even something as natural and automatic as breathing suddenly becomes a fierce struggle. Mine tend to occur when several stressors pile up: exhaustion from inadequate sleep, forgetting to take allergy medicine so my hives flare, social anxiety kicks in, etc; then something happens to push it over the edge.

But rather than explaining it in the abstract, here’s a specific incident from January:

Drained from three very long days of work with minimal sleep and a drive to and from Atlanta, I nonetheless have plans for attending an event with friends the evening I return. The last two hours of my drive should have taken less than an hour, but a snowstorm blowing in slows traffic to an infuriating crawl. One friend already made separate plans outside the initial group, to which I would have felt deeply uncomfortable and intrusive had I attempted to invite myself (at some point I’ll follow this post with one about that paralyzing social anxiety). Meanwhile, everyone else had decided not to attend. I place no blame in either situation. It’s nobody’s fault. However, it left me without company; other than my considerable anxiety.

Nonetheless, I arrive home and jump in the shower. I figured if I could get cleaned up and dressed, I’d feel good enough to show up anyway and wander around by myself in the hopes I might see familiar faces. But while in the shower, the realization I forgot to take zyrtec hit, as my hives flare up and the accompanying itching begins to overwhelm. Already exhausted from the week, embittered from the weather-related traffic, and anxious about the idea of going to an event by myself, the hives are the tipping point. Suddenly my breathing becomes erratic, at once gasping desperately and yet unable to take more than the shallowest sips of air. My heart is beating staccato, like a hummingbird’s wings.

I retreat to my room as quickly as possible and switch off the lights. The less sensory input, the better. Fewer things to distract and overwhelm.

Something I learned from a previous experience was to lay on my back and try as hard as I could to focus solely on my breathing. Slow and steady. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

My dog jumps up and nuzzles me. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

My whole body itches without reprieve. The antihistamine I grabbed after the shower won’t kick in for an hour. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

It helps to count, so my mind has less room to wander, but still it does. I can’t control my anxiety. I can’t control my fear of being unwanted. I can’t control how tired I feel. I can’t fall asleep, which might provide some relief. I can’t control the student loans that have been slipping by. I can’t control the incessant itching. I can’t control my drifting, self-deprecating mind. I can’t control my breathing, two, three, four. I can’t even control my damn breathing, two, three, four.

This continues for about an hour.

Slowly, the itching subsides. My heart rate begins to slow. I finally catch my breath. In the lull that follows, sleep sets in quickly.

Relief.

I don’t really know how to wrap up a post like this. There’s not really an object lesson or neat little conclusion.

(Unless you have something to offer along those lines?)