Late last summer I had what was for me the grand mal of panic attacks—while I was driving home from work.
Once I had the panic under control, I sat down and wrote a raw account of what it felt like. I had never needed to write more in my life. This was the first writing I ever did about my unvarnished life.
I believe it saved me.
I just had a straight up panic attack in the Jeep as I was driving home. Struggling to breathe. Exaggerated in-breaths that wouldn’t give me two lungs full of air. Sudden intense sweating. Hot. Weak.
Oh no. I’m lightheaded. I shouldn’t be driving. Oh no.
In the right side of my periphery, a big spot of black. Reminds me of the time I almost passed out giving blood.
Pull over. Pull over. Take an Ativan. No, I can make it to the drug store and get a bottle of water. Can’t breathe. Holy God, I’m hot. This is real. I shouldn’t be driving.
I pull my bangs off my head. The AC is blasting, but I don’t feel it.
I’m so hot. Pull over. Pull over.
Stop light. I grab my purse and dig for the little black bag with the Ativan bottle. Pop the cap. Take one. Summon enough spit to make it go down. The very act of having the bottle in my hand brought at least some faint relief.
Swallow. Swallow it down.
I pull into the drug store parking lot, sighing, trying to breathe, yawning from not getting enough air. I have this pervasive thought:
The straight up truth is that I can’t do this job much longer. The straight up truth is that I still absorb people’s anxieties about their future, the anxiety in the whole organization. Even as I am learning not to attach to things at work, I am still sponging up people’s fear.
The straight up truth is that I don’t eat enough because I am terrified of getting fat. And I drink too much caffeine, especially in the afternoon.
The straight up truth is that because I obsess about food, I am hungry. So hungry.
More sighing and inhaling and trying to breathe in the drug store. I wander and get a few things we need.
This Ativan is taking a while. I don’t want to feel like this. I want to tell someone. I don’t want to tell anyone. The people I would tell are too vulnerable. They have their own problems.
Home. I open the garage door, get out of the Jeep and manage to slip past Jimmy and a friend, wearing a thin veneer of “I’m okay.”
The question from therapy:
What do I need right now?
I need food first. Then I need to just be and not absorb. Just be.
I can’t live like this much longer. I crave a less stressful existence. Because I don’t know how much longer I will be on earth. I don’t want to die at work.
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