Trust in Panic Attacks
(Your brain will tell you when your heart is in danger…More Love Dust)
My emancipation was well underway. I knew it would be messy at first, but if I just planned it out well, in the end we could all find happiness. I was sure of it.
I’ve never worked harder at organizing something in my life.
And with each road block I faced, I doubled down with determination. I researched living scenarios, custody sharing, dinner plans, pet transitions, and budgets. I created schedules, options, and prepared for obstacles so that each time something was in the way, I would have a solution.
A few weeks in, however, I had my first hiccup.
Both the kids were in therapy during this time. While my oldest, Jude, had his session on Thursday evenings, I would get my hair blown out at the Fantastic Sams next door.
One evening as I was sitting in the salon chair, I suddenly felt funny.
I straightened my body up and breathed. No, I was fine. Another minute passed and there it was again; did my heart flutter? Was that a palpitation? I tried to fix my posture and ignore it. Wait, I needed to go to the bathroom. Yes, that would help.
It did help for a few minutes, but the stylist looked a little concerned when I made her stop again, because maybe, I needed a little water. No, wait, bathroom again, and she looked positively bewildered when I told her I just needed to pay and leave.
I got back to the car with wetish hair and thanked god Jude was done with his therapy.
What’s wrong?
I think I am having a panic attack. Or maybe a heart attack.
Oh, no. Can you drive? I can drive if you can’t.
Can you? No, no, I don’t want you to drive. I can do it; I just need to get home fast.
I started on the freeway, but the freeway has so many lanes that it makes the panic worse. I moved to the side streets as my limbs started in with the numbness. Numbness, fuck, it is panic for sure.
Oh god, I have to pull over; I don’t know if I can make it home. Shit.
Come on, Jackie. I’m texting Jeff. I think I should drive. I’ve driven a bunch before.
Great. I can’t wait to hear what my doctor-boyfriend thinks about me having a heart attack while my not-yet licensed seventeen-year-old drives me through the streets of L.A.
I pulled over and breathed through the rolling strangeness. Until you experience a full-blown panic attack, it’s hard to comprehend the intenseness of them. From the outside, they look ridiculous. You are acutely aware of everything going on in your body; yet, you feel you have no control. You almost feel detached from reality, like an out-of-body experience. Your body is clunking around in the muck, while your brain is driving 80 miles an hour. You are just — unhinged.
I wish I could explain it better. In a panic attack, you are sure you are going to die. Maybe it’s a heart attack, an aneurysm, or a blood clot. Perhaps an infection in your gums has led to your heart, or a protrusion in your intestines has leaked slowly for years and is now a gaping hole seeping toxin into your blood. You can’t pinpoint it, but something has gone dreadfully wrong.
Your perception of things around you also gets skewed. The car is moving and you are driving, but you feel detached — like the wheels are not really touching the ground — like you might float into the wrong lane. So, you grip the wheel tighter and over-correct mistakes that are not really happening. When you get out and try to walk, all things around you seem fuzzy. Objects seem closer or farther than they actually are and you bump into things.
And all you can do is wait.
Wait for the adrenaline to roll through and pray that it does not start back up again. I remember as a young woman making fun of Kim Basinger for coming out with her debilitating disease of panic disorder. How dare someone as beautiful and privileged as she stake such a silly claim? The morning after my first real panic attack, I mean, “drive to the hospital, hand them your driver’s license because you can’t make your mouth form words” panic attack, I vowed never to make fun of that woman again.
You are not a legal driver.
Just about, I can drive. It’s only the side streets.
I do the breathing trick that the cardiologist taught me. Nope, it’s most likely not a heart attack.
Jeff says he will meet us at the house. He thinks I can drive too. C’mon Jackie.
Ok, ok. Switch seats. Fuck.
As Jude got us home through Studio City, he again told me the story of how he drove his grandad to the hospital himself when he was just 11 years old. It was a decent distraction. We didn’t get to adopt him until he was much older and his life has been far more eventful than mine. But by the time we reached the house, I was at the “pacing back and forth” stage.
The pacing stage of panic is the hardest part for me. It feels like those spinning moments of nausea right before you finally puke — but it’s never-ending.
Once you get to this point, two things can happen. You can figure out a way to hold still and allow it to pass through you, or you can pass out in exhaustion. If you hold still and let it pass, the fear is that it will roll around again in just a few minutes. If you allow yourself to pass out, the fear is that you will die in your sleep. No matter which way you turn, there is fear.
Ok, Ok, Ok.
Jackie, it will be ok. Try to lay down.
I do not lay down in the pacing stage; laying down could be fatal. If I can move, I am somehow still surviving.
Can’t (gasp) Lay (gasp) Down. Oh god. Jesus. (gasp, gasp, gasp)
Just breathe and rest Jackie.
How can this be happening?
You are under a lot of stress.
Just then there was a knock and the front door opened. My doctor walked in and gave me a hug. When he let go, I went right back to pacing.
I’m sorry you had to come over here.
Shhhhhhhhh. It’s ok.
He grabbed me on my next pass by, listened to my heart, and felt my pulse. Then he cupped my face and kissed me.
Is it ok? It’s panic, right? How can this be happening again? I’m happy.
He reached into his bag and took out a pill bottle.
I am not going on an SSRI. Please don’t ask me to.
This isn’t an SSRI. It’s only a benzo.
A benzo??
It’s only going to calm you down for a short time. It will allow you to rest. It’s Xanax.
Xanax? No, no, no, no, that is bad for you. The psychiatrist who explained panic attacks to me years ago told me I should not take that drug.
I kept pacing, but my strides were shorter and my turnaround was faster.
He said that it was dangerous and bad.
Ha, I assure you that it is safe. You will be fine.
Oh god, Why is this happening now?
Jude and my Doctor started whispering together as I mulled the whole thing over. I was too afraid of everything to do anything. Jude tried to help and brought the bottle over to me.
Jackie, he knows what he is talking about.
I know. I’m just afraid to take things like that. People die from Xanax.
The doctor jumped on this.
No, people die from abusing Xanax and mixing it with other things. It is a perfectly safe drug that has been used successfully for years, Jackie.
It’s really ok.
Poor Jude, he moved all the way across the country for stability and this is what he gets. Here is what he didn’t know. It’s not that I think doctors don’t know what they’re talking about — it’s just that none of them consistently say the same thing.
Two events had happened in the past few months that had my red flags up about doctors and pills.
The first event happened in my cardiologist’s office. Being an anxious person, I, of course, also have a cardiologist…
Jackie, I want you to know that your heart is quite healthy.
But…
Listen, I am going to prove it to you. I’m going to go ahead and order these tests and when they are done, you are going to see that everything is fine.
I do have anxiety.
Don’t we all, you don’t need to worry about your heart kid. You need to treat the anxiety. Just take Xanax or something.
A psychiatrist told me that Xanax was bad; then he put me on Lexapro and I gained a ton of weight. That made my blood pressure go up which is bad for my heart which was upsetting because heart disease runs in my family. Being upset gave me palpitations and that is what brought me here.
He laughed. Doctors always laugh at me. I’m Hilarious.
Xanax is not bad; people take it all the time. I take one whenever I need it. I have one right here.
And I kid you not, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a little pill and showed it to me. Then, he ordered my heart tests, gave me a hug, and sent me up to the front desk to check out of the office.
The next pill event happened in my favorite day spa with Jeff. They give the best facials in town and one day Jeff, my Doctor/new Boyfriend/whatever he was, asked to come with me.
Ha! A facial! I need that! I will come with you and we can have a day of beauty.
You’re funny, she does have a double room. I will call her.
And so we did enjoy a lovely day of food, facials, and strolling around town. But there was this one part in the day that had stuck with me. As we were getting up from the facial chairs and straightening out our robes and clothes, a pill fell out of Jeff’s’ pocket.
Now, the fact that a pill fell out of his pocket was not a big deal, I have been known to grab my vitamins, supplements, and other meds and dump them into my pockets before I rush out to work lots of times. But it was his reaction to its exposure that was concerning.
He jumped like he had touched a hot stove and scooped it up like it was something to be embarrassed about. “Oops,” he said in a strangely sheepish way. It was only a split second; a moment later he kissed me passionately. But it struck me, Pills and doctors.
Both of those moments were bugging me now as I was faced with this new attack.
Was this panic? What if I have a rare heart disorder and no one knows? What if this pill actually makes it worse? These are the problems for a person with anxiety. One doctor says to stay away from that drug; one doctor says it’s fine as he keeps it in his shirt pocket, and one kisses your face and brings it to your doorstep.
Jeff moved close and waited until he could hold my gaze.
How can I be having a panic attack now? I am so happy, I am not upset about anything. Maybe this isn’t panic?
You need rest. This is not an easy thing to go through and you are going to need help sometimes. If you take it and you still don’t feel better, we will know to look for something else, but I am telling you, this is anxiety. It is an awful thing to deal with. You are going to have to trust me.
Did I trust him? This man is a doctor. He went to some of the best schools; he has been right about everything so far.
I took one more lap.
You promise?
I promise.
And with that, I swallowed the pill.
© Jackie Dawes, June 9, 2022
Another excerpt from my memoir.
Some names have been changed. If you’d like to be notified when I publish something new, click here.
For more of the good stuff, follow Fourth Wave, where we’re changing the world for the better, one story at a time. Got one of your own? Submit to the Wave.
