About On Panic

Anxiety sucks. Panic attacks suck. Depression sucks. A lot of people deal with them:
These are their stories.

Let's just jump right in. Anxiety disorders are the most common mental illness. Let that sink in. Marinate in it. That stat blew my mind. Nearly 20 percent of all Americans deal with them, and they suck (that is my nonprofessional opinion). But get this! They are highly treatable, yet only about a third of people who suffer receive any treatment. It was only through mortal distress that I sought help. If things had never escalated to a point where I feared for my physical well-being then I’d still be suffering to this day.

“Panic was a bitch until I made it my bitch.” 

That phrase was going to be the main theme of this project, but I think it’s important that we remember that recovery—or lack thereof—is a roller-coaster. Even while writing my own story of overcoming anxiety, I felt anxiety. Some days I feel like a pile of goo that anxiety has chewed up and spat on the floor. Its symptoms are an army of the undead that rise again and again after even the greatest conquest. But we go on living. Some days we are a pile of goo, and that’s okay.

I hope to accomplish three things from this blog:

1. Tell a chronological story of how anxiety came about in my life.

2. Share in common experiences with others suffering from anxiety and panic.

3. Teach the techniques that worked for me to overcome panic attacks.

If even a single person stumbles on this site and finds some peace, I’ll be content.

My Story

Part One: What’s Up With My Asshole

So, where did this black hole spiral into discontent begin? It wasn’t a floodgate that opened all at once but rather a slow leak that went unnoticed until, one day, I was up to my neck.

The first indication that something was awry began not in my brain—but in my ass. It’s important to keep in mind that I in no way connected these first issues with anxiety. One of the main themes of this story is the slow, creeping nature of anxiety and panic—it would be a lot shorter story if I had been educated about the nature of my symptoms in advance. Unfortunately, that’s not the timeline we are living in. I never thought I’d be writing these words, but I think it’s time we get back to the question at hand; what was wrong with this guy’s ass?

One day, I noticed I was “regular.” Like really regular. Like going six times a day regular. The problem (if that was not already a problem) arose when my regularity became irregular. I wouldn’t know when it was going to hit, but I knew my window of opportunity to find a bathroom was beginning to narrow. I’m talking about taking a walk to nowhere one minute to taking a brisk jog to the bathroom the next.

After dealing with this for awhile, I found I was forcing myself to use the bathroom before leaving the house. I had no doubt that this habit was inconveniencing those around me, but I lived in fear that the “worst” would happen if I didn’t try. (Bring this guy a pair of fresh pants and get him out of here asap “worst”.) Of course the worst would probably never happen, but now I believe that this was my first induction to the anxiety cycle. 

It was about a year or so later when I made one of the best decisions of my life. I dove deep into veganism. No, this story will not be laced with vegan propaganda—there are plenty of blogs out there that cover that topic. However, after my transition to veganism, I was no longer “super duper regular”. The transition wasn’t difficult; I had toyed with vegetarianism on and off in the past and landed on a primarily pescatarian diet after moving to Portland, but my dairy intake was at an all time high. Bean and cheese burritos, baby! 

My life steadily improved after switching to veganism. I lost a little weight, felt tranquility in my mind, and most notably: felt no bathroom anxiety. I deduced that I was lactose sensitive (a nice way to say shitting a lot) and in my mind, veganism had cured me. This is probably a major reason why I hold my diet choices so dear to me. They allow me ample opportunities that I took for granted in the past.

Little did I know this was a band-aid on a bullet wound. My body and mind had discovered a new technique to get my undivided attention and was prepared to use it. So where did panic enter the picture here? It didn’t yet. That comes later. It comes in a fucking maelstrom of disruption to my otherwise mediocre life.

Part Two: Panic at the Food Court/Let’s Hit the Emergency Room

Let’s set the scene. I am visiting my hometown for a wedding. Things are good at this time. Traveling had been relatively stress free. (By the way, don’t get me started on all the issues I had with traveling. Seriously, it sucked. I booked flights based on how close to the bathroom I could sit. I stared at the fasten seat belt light in a cold sweat, unsure if I would make it until it turned off to get to the bathroom. Of course as soon as the light flickered out I was fine—no need to use the restroom at all. Anyway, I’ll touch more on traveling in a future post. Okay, back to it.) I had some butterflies in my basket, but overall, I felt pretty okay at this time. It never really crossed my mind that anxiety could be a culprit to my various new neurosis. Anxiety means stress, right? But my life was going great! I had moved to a new city with my loving girlfriend and obtained a fun job. Nothing was causing me any stress at all, and again—stress leads to anxiety—right? I was ignorant and uninformed.

The wedding was typical. We drank. We danced. We drank a little more. Enter a black curtain drawing across my memory and opening again to the light of the next day. Anyone who has ever had a hangover knows the basic desires that flood your mind the moment your eyes flutter open. Hunger and thirst consumed me. There are not a lot of choices for vegan food in my hometown, so I ended up at a Mongolian grill in the local mall. My last supper before my life would tilt shift into absurdity was actually pretty amazing. Unfortunately, I didn’t enjoy the contentedness that comes with a freshly filled hungover belly.

As we were leaving the mall, I felt a sensation hit me that I had never experienced before. In fact, calling it a sensation would be a gross understatement. I experienced dying, or so I thought at the time. The best way to describe the commencing experience would be someone shoving me from behind unexpectedly. I instantly felt the gravity of the universe pulling on me. I lost all my breath. My heart felt like it had stopped. I shriveled to the floor, sure I was having a heart attack or some other cardiac failure-to-operate. I’d heard stories of athletes’ hearts suddenly stopping despite being in perfect health. I could visualize my obituary. And then it was over—as unexpectedly as it started. I sat on the floor panting. The friends I was with were, understandably, confused and concerned. One friend happened to be a nurse and did wonders comforting me, talking me down by reminding me that I was likely dehydrated from the wedding and in need of water and rest. That didn’t feel true in my heart, but I accepted it as fact and went on with my day, shaken but resilient. 

I experienced my true last supper the following afternoon. (It was lunch, but let’s not allow that to ruin my analogy.) I was with a dear friend and his wife for an Americanized Mexican meal when my body began to feel abnormal again. It’s difficult to articulate the physical symptoms I was experiencing, but a general chest discomfort might be an acceptable start. My heart began to feel different. I felt chilled, short of breath, and pardon my vulgarity: really fucking shitty. Cancer, probably. Or so I thought. I called my mom and told her how I was feeling and she insisted I go to the hospital. I argued because I was out of state and really didn’t want to pay the hefty bill, but eventually she insisted and offered to help with the money. I politely returned to the table and casually asked for a ride to the emergency room—if it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.

“I think I’m dying. Please and thanks.”

Part Three: Hospital Hoedown/Emergency Room #1

“I can’t catch my breath, and I feel really dizzy,” I told the receptionist behind the desk in the urgent care wing.

“Fill this out and we’ll be with you soon,” she responded and pushed a clipboard of paperwork toward me. I found a seat and sank into it. After an unpleasant but not terribly long wait, I was called into a room to be examined. 

I was given a series of questions, tests, and X-rays over the course of the evening. The doctor performed a few tests specifically to see what made me dizzy and what didn’t. She seemed to be getting satisfaction beyond the professional level from this, but I get it; it was hilarious. I was a Weeble that wobbled and then did fall down. Of course everything came back normal. The doctor said I was likely suffering from vertigo and wrote me a prescription for some pills that would ease the dizziness. I called my mom to inform her that I was not dying—as she had assumed earlier in the day. I felt relieved but not overly eased. 

I returned to my friend’s house, slumped on his couch and stayed there for the remainder of my trip. I was fielding a constant flow of texts and calls regarding my availability to hang-out before I left the state, but I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to the inquiries. I ended up going with an old reliable: I was feeling under the weather. The friend who I was staying with was happy to watch tv and relax on the couch with me. We had already had an eventful weekend and a bit of rest was welcomed by all. Thank god, because I was starting to wonder how I would survive a two hour drive to the airport and a 3 hour flight home feeling the way I did.

Through a combination of breathing exercises, pills, and good old fashioned white knuckling it, I made it home. This was the true beginning of my panic cycle. My body had found a way to incarnate my anxiety in a way that grabbed my attention. It had discovered the panic attack. It was as if before this my body simply poked and prodded to try to get my attention, but I would brush off its advances like a mosquito. But the panic button… well, that button worked.

Part Four: A Downward Spiral

Day to day life was becoming arduous. I spent a lot of time in bed and hoped for sleep to bring me to a new, stress free plane. My daily routine was changing.

After a few dizzy spells on the highway, I decided that I should stick to smaller city streets. I'd try to find a ride if I had an obligation, but often, I’d just find an excuse to bail. I blamed vertigo frequently these days, but in my heart I felt there was something else at play.

As things progressed, it was more than dizziness I had to contend with. I couldn’t deal with waiting rooms or lines of any sort. I was terrified to make appointments for fear of being unable to escape. Escape what? I didn't even know. Something as mundane as a haircut sounded daunting. Dizziness was combined with other panic symptoms, and I began to spiral. 

I started having trouble getting through my work day. This is when things got serious— my livelihood was at stake. During my shifts I was constantly fighting with panic symptoms. I was often unable to catch my breath. I was dizzy, fuzzy, tight in the chest, and unable to focus. Customers would talk to me, but I was miles away. There was a sprinkle of bathroom crying sessions spent on the floor of my grimey bar restroom. “What the hell is happening to me and when will it end,” I would think, head tucked between my knees. After calling in my support staff early a handful of times, I decided I had to ask for a leave of absence. 

It was about this time that my most troubling symptoms began, but I think they deserve a post to themselves. So, let's dive in next time.

Part Five: Rock Bottom

Say what you will about my melodrama—the following is true to me.

I know what it feels like to die. My mind told my body it was dying multiple times a day. I know what it feels like to be a non-native speaker. On more than one occasion my mind convinced itself that it no longer understood English. The people around me carried on their conversation with no idea that I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I know what it feels like to be someone else. My mind separated itself from my “self” as if I was a passenger taking a terrifying ride in a foreign body: John Malcovich style. I’d lose myself multiple times a day and be sure my mind wouldn’t return to the body it came from. 

I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but it’s important that I reveal how intense my sensations were at this time. No one could tell me what was wrong with me, and I was constantly certain I was dying or losing my mind.

I mustered the nerve to go to the doctor, and I was finally informed that my situational anxiety had progressed to a panic disorder. All I knew about panic attacks at the time came from tv and movies. A character—usually weak physically and mentally—would find themselves in a stressful situation and resort to breathing into a brown paper bag. I didn’t know that my panic attacks were a defense mechanism for my body. I didn't know that there was more to anxiety than needing to breathe into a bag.

Enter into my life the glorious SSRI. (All hail the SSRI). I was medicated. I was diagnosed. I was still having panic symptoms, but I could brush them off because of some great resources and helpful therapy. One thing that still sticks with me to this day is a quote from my clinic’s therapist.

“Discomfort, Not Danger.”

I found myself repeating this quote often over the next few months.

“Imagine,” she said. “The discomfort you’re feeling in your chest. Your chest is where important organs operate: your heart is pumping blood and your lungs are breathing air. If either of those fail, you’re toast. So, when something feels off in your chest, it’s reasonable to freak out. Let’s remember that these sensations are only your body pumping adrenalin at a greater rate and dealing with stress in a way that’s meant to get your attention to prepare for fight or flight.”

“Correct,” I said. “It’s the literal fucking worst,” I said some iteration of that.

“Now imagine," she continued, "that same discomfort manifested in your left big toe. Would you still find yourself at the hospital? I think you’d write it off as a sore toe and go on with your day. Try to remember that these sensations you experience are no more dangerous than discomfort in your big toe. Discomfort but not danger.”

That clicked—I had a new weapon against anxiety. A damn powerful one at that. Panic attacks came and went like a passing breeze. I sent panic symptoms on their way as soon as they showed their ugly faces. I was, for all intents and purposes, cured.

I was CURED! 

Not really. That doesn’t happen. But I was a lot better. I was able to go to work. I even began feeling so good that I drove for Uber—a feat that I could not have fathomed a few months prior. I felt pretty good for about a year, but just as the angry bee stings twice, panic showed its damned head again…

Part Six: Emergency Room #2 and Fuck me.

Approximately a year after the events of my previous post, panic symptoms began messing with my head again. I felt the dizziness (vertigo?). I felt chest tightness. I felt impending doom. I asked my doctor for an increased dose of my daily SSRI, and he agreed that it was a good idea as my dose was pretty low to begin with. This is about when my chest pain began.

A dull ache began to arise near my sternum that occasionally manifested as a sharp jab. I tried brushing it off as another symptom of anxiety, but it became clear that it was something different. By this time I was very well acquainted with every “panic feeling” in my repertoire, so I thought it would be strange if a new one appeared out of the blue. I made a lot of excuses for my chest pain. I go to the gym; maybe I hurt it there. Maybe my rib was hurting because a back muscle was too tight. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was nothing but my mind fucking with me. Maybe this. Maybe that. I had no idea, but it was becoming troubling. 

One day while at work, I felt a sudden, sharp jab on the left side of my chest. I lost my breath and my balance. I placed one hand on a chair and one on my chest. I felt my face lose color and my breathing lose rhythm. Something was wrong. Something was different. My coworker saw me and said I looked ghostly. I couldn’t stand up straight and I couldn’t concentrate—my only thought was that I should get to a hospital. I had to do some creative texting to get the rest of my shift covered, but I was able to skip out and drive to the emergency room (again).

The sliding doors of Urgent Care slid open with a hiss revealing a contrasting world than the sunny spring day I stepped out of. The hospital interior was an assortment of soft blues and grays. When I approached the front desk they hailed a wheelchair immediately. Have you ever looked so bad that someone made you sit down? It’s not exactly complimentary. However, the good thing about checking yourself into emergency with chest pains is that because of their potentially fatal nature, you get to skip to the front of the line. 

It wasn’t long before I had was adorned in a hospital smock, given an EKG, blood tests, and an IV. As my test results began to stream in as normal, I confided in a nurse about how bad I’d feel if I checked myself into the hospital for anxiety again. He told me it happened often and reminded me that most people don’t get such thorough testing done on a regular basis; I should enjoy the peace of mind of knowing I was healthy. He asked if I had a ride home, scolded me for driving there in the first place, then gave me some “happy pills.” I drifted into a medicinally induced nap.

Part Seven: Cured Again, Maybe.

After my second trip to the emergency room, I began to feel significantly better again. My chest pain remained, but I accepted it as a skeletal or muscular issue and didn’t stress about it. 

Let’s take a moment here to remind the viewers at home that stress and anxiety are not synonymous. Although I toss it around casually, feeling stressed and feeling anxious are two completely different entities. Believing wholeheartedly that you are about to die and being unnerved by a busy week are two situations that should not be compared. I’ll get back into the distinction between the two in a later post, but for now, back to the show.

Actually, this act is over. We've reached the present. It’s been well over a year since my last hospital visit. I continue to take SSRIs and continue to suffer from the occasional anxiety, but something is different now. I have confidence that I didn’t possess in the past. I know what is happening to my brain. I’m educated. This education resides in the same brain that sent me to the emergency room twice with concerns for my life on this mortal coil. Some days are better than others. I wish I could say that the worst is behind me, but honestly, I don't know. Some days I'm a pile of goo, and that’s okay. Life is complex. Let’s enjoy what we have of it.