Back in July of 2017, I had one of the worst panic attacks I've ever had. At the time, I wrote and shared a description of the experience and my attempts to process that experience, with a few edits.
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I stumbled over my first trigger yesterday, and had a real honest to god panic attack. I’ve had them before, but usually not as a reaction to something specific.
I didn’t understand what that was like. Like, I got it in the abstract, but the actual feeling in the moment is ridiculous. There was this complete and utter disconnect between what I knew to be true and my emotional reaction and then a re-writing of reality to match that reaction.
A conversation with Benjamin about a completely reasonable emotional exchange somehow went sideways in my brain. I haven’t worked out exactly what the trigger was, or how to avoid it in the future, but I want to walk through the experience. I cobbled this metaphor together in a conversation with a friend.
Even at the beginning of freaking out I knew at a logical and intellectual level that things were fine. I was told that the situation was fine and I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I believed that. I knew it to be true.
But in some part of my brain...
A little boy is screaming. Everything was ending. He's standing in a grocery store and he's lost his mom, and he is certain that she is dead now, and he's all alone, and he'll never make it home again.
Primal fear of the unknown, panic and loss. And how do you listen to that little kid scream and not believe him?
You know the little boy is wrong because you can see his mom right down the next aisle, she’s right there and everything is fine, but you can’t hear that little kid without giving in, at least a little bit...
How do you hear his fear and not think the world is ending?
My friend's answer was this: “Cause we’re adults. We’ve been there. We know the complete and utter terror, but also can suspend that belief for long enough to find help. You did this - you asked me to get you. You took meds. You went to a safe place”
I gave into the fear for awhile. I literally sat on the floor in a dark room, tucked into the corner, shaking and crying. But when I was there, I asked for help. I couldn’t hear the truth, not in my core, but I functioned.
I stood and listened to the boy scream, felt my heartbeat pick up, tried to point out his mom. I went around the store and did my grocery shopping and picked out a couple nice snacks. I made it a quick trip.
I asked for help. I pulled myself off the floor and out of the corner. I took medication. I got myself to a safe place. I made plans and got myself and my friend to a safe place.
Even with the kid was screaming right in my fucking ear I looked up and tried. I didn’t sit down next to him and sob.
I tried to explain to Ben what had happened. I tried, but I know the first attempts didn't make any sense. I was still sobbing too hard, and I still wasn’t ready to process what had actually happened.
Even when I’m wandering around the store, though, just buying things and checking off my list, I can still hear him. He's found his mom, he’s clutching to her skirt and sobbing on her, snot and tears and feelings all over the place.
I made it through the rest of my day, almost normal. I hung out with friends and I learned things and I ate dinner. I made it home. I made plans and I laughed and I helped. And I shook. And every couple of minutes I looked sad and lost again.
Mom and kid run a few more errands, but he’s never out of her sight. He hardly lets go of her hand. Won’t even go to the bathroom without her. He’s sniffling a little and might start crying again, but he isn't screaming every second.
I drew complex designs over my tattoo in sharpie.
I patted the kid’s head when he walked by.
When I could ask for the real help I needed, I finally did. I asked for a phone call with Ben. I needed to hear his voice when he told me things were okay. I had mostly walked through the problem myself, but
The little kid is still unsure. When they get home, mom puts the kid to bed and kisses his forehead, and he wakes up 20 minutes later and walks to her room, poking his head in for a second to make sure she's still there. Of course she is, and he knows she is, but he’d been so afraid.
Today… is this. I’m not listening to the kid cry anymore.
He’s not crying. He’s home and in bed. He’s probably having bad dreams, but he’ll be okay.
And I read over the conversation again, looked at the words and the tone that were actually communicated. I could read it for real when the kid wasn’t screaming in my ear.
Mom had tapped the little kid’s shoulder and said “honey I’ll be right over there” and he just didn’t hear her. When the little boy turned around, his mom just wasn’t there anymore.
I rewound the tape and stepped back and saw the whole thing.
And the me that’s me and isn’t that little boy can see that things are okay. But damn my ears are still ringing from how long he cried and how loud he screamed. His bad dreams are still making him whimper and whine in my head. So I’m feeling fragile and strung out. I’m so tired.
The little boys is probably going to wake up a few more times and check to see that his mom is asleep in her bed where she’s supposed to be. He’ll spend a few weeks fighting a small flare of panic when he realizes he can’t see her. But here’s hoping he won’t start screaming again. And if he does, here’s hoping I won’t spend so long believing him.
