I started writing this yesterday, the day after the “Biggest Panic Attack Ever!” and at some point thought, “this is crap, people don’t want to read about my miserable-ness”. The point is, that’s what I’m supposed to be keeping a blog for. To record my panic attacks and anxiety, and let the world know what it’s like.
In hindsight, I don’t remember much about the actual attack, all I know is that somewhere in the middle of it, I did a complete work out, because my muscles are killing me. My chest, back, arms and legs all feel like they’ve done the rounds at the local gym, and yesterday I felt exhausted. I didn’t sleep that night, and spent yesterday wandering around, not able to concentrate on anything for very long.
This is what I wrote (edited slightly so it makes more sense)
I think I set the record for the biggest panic attack ever. I want a statuette, dammit.
Monday, when Mr D finished work, we decided to go for a ride out (I wanted some lemonade and sandpaper anyway – strange diet, I know) but the main reason was that Mr D was convinced there was another way into work.
His journey isn’t that long, but the main road he uses is very busy, and is a notorious accident blackspot. From what I’ve seen, I’m not surprised. There is something about that road that turns driver’s brains to jelly, and for eight miles or so, there’s this real-life Wacky Races situation. Of course, my husband drives like a saint…
So, we drove. I felt okay – I’d been busy that day, and was tired, but not really that anxious. It was a situation I’d been in many times before, there was nothing to be afraid of. I did well, we went into the supermarket and bought lemonade (and plenty of other things that we thought we needed), then we went to the DIY store and got the sandpaper.
On the way home, as we were coming into the town, we passed under a railway bridge, and suddenly there was this horrible clattering sound. I jumped, and someone reset the anxiety dial to max, but I didn’t panic. There were cries of “What the bloody hell was that???” and I looked up and saw some kids on the top of the bridge. They’d obviously thrown something at the car.
I count in Japanese when my anxiety is bad. I do it because it’s something that forces me to concentrate on things other than panic. It helps. It doesn’t help when Mr D, still flustered from the arial attack, isn’t watching the traffic lights change, and has to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting the car in front.
I think I screamed, I can’t really remember. I remember yelling over and over for him to stop the car, I needed – no I HAD TO get out. It seemed like a million years before I could open the door. My head was swimming, I thought the car had stopped, and I fell out onto the pavement. I scrambled to get away, I stumbled, and somewhere a sane thought said, “sit down. just sit down” Somehow I realised that if I didn’t sit down there and then, I would probably just keep running. I remember breathing – gasping and feeling like I was going to choke, the razor-wire fear enveloping my being. Then there was my husband. He was there, his arm around my shoulder, talking softly to me. His voice cutting through the insanity. I became more aware of my surroundings, and realised that I was sitting in the middle of some bushes, fetal and damp. Mr D helped me to the car, and I sat there with my feet out, my head in my hands, trying not to be sick.
When we got home – my familiar place, my safe place, and after I had cried a lot, Mr D said that two women had come over and asked if I was allright. I had no idea. He said that he’d explained to them I was having a panic attack, and I’d be okay, and they left us to it. I want to say to those two ladies, I’m sorry, I had no idea you were there. Thank you for caring. Thank you for showing concern, for being human.