When the panic attacks...

A panic attack is starting. 

I can feel it in my chest. 

The area around my heart is starting to constrict. 

My lungs are starting to feel weighted.  There’s a lyric in the song Live it Well by Switchfoot, “take the anchor off my lungs…”  That’s exactly how it feels. 

But that’s not where the attack starts.  That’s not where the first symptom pops up.

It starts in my throat.  The base of it.  Deep and to the back.

It gets a hitch.  Like I’ll take a breath, but a valve is partially shut or something and it take a second for the oxygen to be released. 

I breathe deeply…

But the amount of air stays the same.

And then my eyes start to prickle. 

Seriously.  I can feel the inside corners where my tear ducts are start to wake up, they can sense the need for tears.  Even if those tears will never come.

But worst of all?  Worse than when my brain figures out that something off is happening, which it will do in a second.  The worst is my hands. 

And then my arms.

 They start to numb a little.  I start to lose dexterity.  The clumsiness picks up.  And the erratic motions.  Sometimes they twitch.  Not bad.  But just enough that I can feel it.  I have to be deliberate about every muscle movement because this is NOT state of emergency and I do not have to go fast. 

I shake my hands to try and get the feeling back to normal but it doesn’t help.  In fact sometimes it makes it worse. 

And then it starts to travel up my arms and my elbows clench to my sides in what can only be described as an attempt to make myself smaller.  To compact in on myself.  Because then I won’t be seen.  Then I’ll be safe…

Or my muscles will tense, ready to spring.  Ready to run.

I need my hands. 

Not just because everyone needs their hands but because I have small kids. I need to be able to smooth peanut butter and slather jam for a sandwich.  I need to be able to tie shoes and untie a ninja mask.  And then retie that mask onto a little head.  I need to be able to wipe a tear or scratch a back.  I need to be able to pick up my child and hold them.  No matter if it’s to comfort or discipline or carry to the doctor.  I need my hands. 

…and then my brain starts.

I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe.  Something is wrong.  Something bad is going to happen.  I can’t breathe.  Something bad is going to happen.  Something is wrong.  Something is wrong.  Something is WRONG.  I can’t breathe. 

And then, because I’m not crazy, my brain tries to find what is wrong.  Because there has to be a REASON I feel like this.  So it starts switching through channels, searching for the cause, the source of this panic.  And because I’m not crazy, it will try to latch onto that reason in the attempt to justify the feelings that are starting to race through me. 

When all this was starting, when I was first learning about this part of myself, THAT wrecked more havoc than the actual panic attack.  Because I would pick fights about the ‘slight’ or ‘injustice’ or ‘mean-ness’ that my brain latched onto as the cause for my panic. 

Sometimes?  Sometimes there is a reason.  It can be small.  Like someone in the store parking lot was super snotty to me.  Or a memory pops up and I remember my kids and how small they were. 

Or it can be big.  My friends are being persecuted because of what they look like.  There’s a global pandemic and my country is breaking records on the number of new cases in a day.  And people are still complaining about having to wear a mask.  Or wearing it WRONG.  And just not caring.  There are people being murdered in my city.  Including a three year old.  And a four year old.  And a five year old. 

…There are lots of big triggers out there right now…

It can even be something positive.  Almost always when I have family coming over I start to spiral into an attack before they get here.  Because I’m excited and anxious to see them and have a good time and my brain decides to use that as fuel for the fire.

WHAT IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG?

So, suddenly, I’m panicking.  Or starting to. 

I’m in Aldi when this one starts to come.

I feel it.  Try to ignore it.  Because if you don’t look at the monster then sometimes they leave you alone, right?

I start praying. 

This has been one of the hardest aspects of dealing with mental health.  So many people of faith just think you need to give it to God, that I’m just not praying enough. 

Please believe me when I say that prayer is a huge part of my having a panic attack.  I pray almost constantly through it. 

“Please God.  Please Lord.  Help me get out of this store.  Help me not drop anything.  No spills, no funny looks.  Please Lord.  Help me finish this task.  Please God, just help me get to my car.  Get me out the doors.  Please Father.  I’ll be easier to breathe once I’m outside.  Thank you Father.  Thank you thank you.  Get me to my car.  Help me please.  Take it away.  Make it stop.  Give me the words, Lord.  Maybe that’ll help.  A distraction.  Help me Lord.  Please Lord let it be over by the time I get home.  I don’t have time.  I’m running late.  I need to make dinner and feed everyone.  Please, God, help me.  Calm my heart. Please God. Calm my breathing. Don’t let the kids notice. Don’t let Taylor notice.  I don’t need to cry.  I need to cook.  Help me Lord.  Cooking will help.  Complete this task.  Get it done.  Just get one thing done.  And then another.  NO, focus on the one in front of you.  Please Father.  Get the oven on.  Check.  Thank you God.  Thank you for cooking.  Thank you for your help…”

And this was a small one. 

Sometimes they’re so big that I can’t keep going.  I have to escape.  That’s usually when I go to my room and sit on the floor.  Or go the closet.  And sit on the floor.  Or go to my bathroom.  And sit on the floor.   There are usually tears then.  And lets of praying/begging.  Often that’s when I need my husband.  I need his arms.  They’ll squeeze around me.  Not constricting like my lungs, holding together in safety.  It’ll be tight around me, so it’s safe for my muscles to start to relax. 

So it goes till it’s over. 

My oldest son slammed his finger in the garage door today.   A blood blister immediately welled up.  A big one.  He was doing the “holy cow that really hurt and isn’t feeling better” dance and trying to stop crying.  I told him to get an ice pack out of the freezer and that might help.  But then I told him the unfortunately truth that every grownup knows when you smash or pinch something. 

It’s just going to hurt till it stops hurting. 

Not what you want to hear. 

But in it, there is a small comfort.  It will stop hurting.  It WILL.  And then that hurt will be over.  It may be a little sore but the initial bad pain is done. 

At the end of every attack, I know it won’t be my last.  It’ll happen again.  And then, again, it’ll be over.    

The pain will be done.  The attack will be done.

I will get to pick myself up, make my family dinner (and a yummy one to boot), laugh at the table, and thank God it stopped.  And then sleep.  Ready for the next day. 

This is how you live with anxiety.  You keep going.  You learn your triggers, what to avoid, what to embrace, and you keep going.  If the good outweighs the bad, you learn to still be vigilant and give thanks for this season, and keep going.  If the bad outweighs the good, you talk to your doctor, change your diet, change your exercise, change your habits, maybe get medication, and trust that the good will return. 

Because the panic will end.  It WILL.   And when it does, you keep going.