So, I usually do little, quirky posts about little quirky things that essentially have minimal importance in the world, and are for the most part a laughing matter. However, today I decided I would like to write about something on the more serious side- panic attacks. "Why?" you might ask. Well, I find that it's something that has come up a fair bit in passing lately, so it's been on my mind. Do I like to think about panic attacks? Of course not. But I do like to talk about them, and I'll share with you my reasoning through this blog post.
When I was nineteen, I had the opportunity of a lifetime to spend four months in sunny Cuba, with eleven friends and classmates from college. I was excited beyond words for this, and no matter what my teachers, family, and friends who had been there before (off resort) told me, I knew I was going to have the best time. Gorgeous weather? Check. School ending at noon every day? Check. Cheap EVERYTHING? Check. Beaches? Check. How could it not be amazing?
I quickly realized that there was some truth behind what I had been told, as far as experiencing "culture shock". The food was bland, the people were slightly more aggressive than we're used to in Canada (not in a harmful way, but at first you don't realize that), the sun was hotter than I ever expected, and the living quarters at university were...well, let's just say very different from my living quarters at home. However, we made the most of it in our first few days there. We went to the beach, got to know our neigbourhood and some other international students, explored the city a little, and discovered the closest facilities to buy rum. Life was grand, and I was determined to have a good time.
School was a very small part of our time there, although the purpose of the trip was to study. It moreso acted as an interference with the rest of our day (i.e. drinking mojitos all afternoon on the boulevard and learning how to dance Cuba style). Needless to say, at nineteen, it was easy to fall into an unhealthy and certainly uneducational lifestyle.
A few weeks in, I was at the bank, withdrawing money to go spend on rum, noodles, puppies (another story) and mojitos, when something really strange happened to me. The bank was incredibly hot and crowded, and the men at the doors with rifles were especially grumpy looking that day. As I waited for what seemed like forever, I noticed that my heart started to beat very fast...faster...faster. "What's happening to me?" I thought. It continued to speed up until I honestly thought it was going to pound out of my chest. I was sure everyone could see it beating, and as I nervously looked around, I began to get the feeling that I was going to pass out. I thought to myself "I'm either going to faint or throw up". Finally, it was my turn. I thought as long as I could get to the teller, and get my money before I did one of those two things, I would be fine. When it came time to sign my slip so I could have my dinero, I realized that my hands were shaking almost uncontrollably. My signature was beyond recognition, and the teller gave me a suspicious look as she compared it to the one on my passport. I explained to her in my broken Spanish that I was just very hungry, grabbed the money, and scurried out the door. As soon I hit the pavement outside, I immediately started to feel better. So strange.
I didn't think too much about my "episode" until a couple nights later, when I was sitting in a restaurant. As we were waiting for our food, I once again got that feeling that I was having some sort of heart problem. I excused myself and bolted for the bathroom, where I half expected to be found, passed out on the floor some hours later. I looked at my very pale face in the mirror as I splashed water on it with trembling hands, and thought "This is not normal." When we left the restaurant (where I had to get my food to-go after ordering, for complete loss of appetite), I confided to my best friend that I thought there was something wrong with me. That night, I called home, and as soon as I heard my father's voice, I started to cry. I didn't know what was happening to me, or if I was going to be okay, and I just wanted to go home.
When I realized what was actually happening to me (I was having panic attacks), I told my parents. I knew that some of my family members had previously suffered from these, but I was horrified to really admit it or talk about it. However, when I confided in my travelling companions (after many Cuba Libres), most of them told me they had them too, or had in the past. I was shocked and amazed at how common it seemed to be just among our small group. But, I was the only one who couldn't seem to control them at this time, and lived in fear of having one every single day. Needless to say, it put a damper on my trip, caused me to drink far more than I should have (because alcohol makes you feel the opposite of anxious), and absolutely gave me a complex about going to the bank (anyone who was with me knows exactly what I'm talking about).
The return home was a huge relief. I wanted to be where I was comfortable, and I wanted to see my family. My whole travelling home experience was completely anxiety ridden- long lines made me anxious (e.g. the airport a week before Christmas), flight cancellations (good God, why is this trip dragging on?), and the idea of being stuck in a confined place for hours, with no option of escape (airplane bathroom, maybe?). But finally, when I arrived home, I felt peaceful again. I was sure my stint of being a nervous wreck could be chalked up to being so far away for an extended period.
Not so. When my panic attacks started happening again, I made an appointment to go see my doctor. I wanted tranquilizers, and I wanted them right away! My doctor suggested talking to someone at the mental health center, as he wanted me to try and work through this without medication. I left, feeling like a maniac. Mental health clinic? Oh my God, I'm not crazy! I can't believe he implied that I'm crazy! Looking back, I am so grateful he was hesitant to dish out the meds. I did skip the mental health clinic, but I took some action to try and alleviate my "problem". I gave up coffee, and started eating better (remember, I was still in college, so "better" doesn't necessarily mean great). This did help, however I was always on my toes, waiting for the next attack. I could usually predict when they were going to happen- a crowded place, a long line up, the bank (that one came home with me), or any situation that required me to sign something. I had no control over them, and if I felt one coming, I would leave the situation immediately. The worst was the lack of control- I was not the force behind my own mind and body. I was at the mercy of this curse.
I lived like this for the next year or so. I avoided panic situations, and lived in fear of fear. My breaking point came when I was at work one day just before Christmas. I was sitting at my desk, and I could anticipate a panic attack. But this was not like a normal attack- this was slow and evil and was lingering for an hour or two before it finally hit.And when it did, I'd had enough. I rushed out, telling my boss in passing that I thought I was coming down with the stomach flu and had to leave, and bolted to my car. I drove home as fast as I could, and screamed and cried the whole way. I could not understand what was wrong with me, why I had to go through this, and I needed relief. I told my dad I felt crazy, and I remember laying in bed all day, crying long after the anxiety attack had passed. I felt "broken", but the worst of it was I had no explanation for why. I lived a great life, I had a job that I liked, wonderful friends, an amazing family, and had never really struggled with anything. My biggest stressor, being twenty, was probably boys. I couldn't fix this, and that was the worst thing. This was not physical- I couldn't heal it with a cast or band-aid, or even a painkiller like Advil. If only it was so simple. This was going to take much more.
Over the next couple years, I "managed" my anxiety. I knew it was a recurring thing, but I wasn't having constant panic attacks. Being a very social person, I certainly did not have agoraphobia or anything close to that. I think the thing that caused the bulk of my attacks was the fear of having an attack. Once I thought about it, it was as if I couldn't stop, and all of a sudden, I was in the midst of one. Normal activities that would cause a person to feel nervous, like a first date or a job interview, would cause me to break into a sweat and do my best to avoid a complete meltdown. My anxiety determined what I did and did not do. "Oh, I can't go there- I'll get too anxious".
Eventually, my doctor prescribed me a very low dose of Ativan, which was only to be taken whenI felt like I might have an attack. You simply put it under your tongue, and let it do it's thing. He prescribed this in 2006, giving me 18 pills. I went back in 2008 for a refill, although I still had three pills left. The fact that I had this magic little pill made my panic attacks far less frequent, and helped me realize that I was in control, somewhat, and that I just needed to breathe. Breathe. The best remedy.
In the past few years, I have seen a huge change in myself in this aspect of my life. I can't remember the last time I had an anxiety attack, and can differentiate between regular nervousness, and an anxious situation. I can drink coffee again (after six years not drinking it), and it doesn't make me have what feel like heart palpitations. I quit smoking almost five years ago, and I also think that has made a big difference. But I believe the biggest thing that helped me to overcome this was the realization that I really can't control it, and therefore why worry? If it's going to happen, it will happen, so just breathe through it until it is over. From stories I have heard, my panic attacks were not as severe as some, so while I don't know that this method works for everyone, it worked for me. You know how people say "If you have a ghost, accept it and make friends with it" (well, that's what Samantha on Sex and the City says)? I accepted my anxiety, and decided I would just breathe through it. And I firmly believe that realization and change in my attitude has helped me to avoind many panic attacks. If I feel one coming, I think "Bring it. Let's do this." I breathe, and focus on breathing, and the fact that it will be over in five minutes, tops. That actually stops me from panicking. Weird.
So, back to my initial point- why do I like to talk about this? The more I talk about it and tell people about my experience, the more I realize that more people than not have suffered something similar. However, if I never talked about it to anyone, I would not know that, and would probably still think there was something seriously wrong with me. Hell, I probably would have committed myself by now. But knowing that there are so many people who can relate to this, people who I never would have guessed went through a day of anxiety in their lives, makes me feel okay. It's made me stronger, and it's definitely taught me that I am capable of overcoming hurdles. I know, that sounded so cheesy! But this was a huge burden to me, and I am so glad I was able to get past it, or at least make it liveable. Do I think I will never have another panic attack in my life? Absolutely not. I am sure there are a few more in store for me. But I know about them now, I know what to do and what not to do when I feel one coming, and I definitely feel I am more equipped to take one on- or embrace it. Accept it- it's happening! Panic, come and go, and let's get on with life!
