When Panic Attacks

I used to think I inherited this horrible 'condition' that my doctor treats with nifty psychotropic drugs. I have, myself, diagnosed my mother with bipolar disorder. Once a grown woman who says she loves you tosses 8 ounces of milk in your face - once you've had the words "whore" flung at you in rush-hour traffic, the windows of her '77 Chevy rolled down low, and the people next to you at the light glance down at their laps in embarrasment, you might try to diagnose your own mother with some sort of 'condition'.

I remember hoping I was somehow mistakenly discharged from the hospital two days after birth with this mother who sucked at mothering. Wasn't I supposed to go home with two loving parents who were perhaps even now sitting in a physician's office with their own lunatic daughter, wondering if she was switched at birth?

I am her child. It is easier and easier to realize this as I stare at my beloved bottle of Xanax and its friends, more numerous now that I am prescribed additional meds to dissuage the effects of the first. And it began innocently enough. I told a friend at work, also a sufferer of anxiety apparently, that I had nearly stabbed my 7-year-old with a plastic knife. That sounds so horrid - how could I type such a thing - even as I do so, I think 'am I a monster? Did this really happen?'

I had been up writing until too early in the morning. My house was making all the spooky noises old 1950's brick homes make to keep us up well past bedtime. I shut off the lights, feeling secure. My husband, a police officer, was working graveyards. I crawled under the cool covers, my herd of dogs warming my feet. The gate next to my window rattled. I sat up, my heart beating wildly, and switched on the light. It took a few more rattles before I remembered it was the gate that stuck - you couldn't open it with normal effort. Someone was trying to sneak unsuccessfully into the backyard.

I hopped out of bed and raced down the hall, flipping all the light switches on. Maybe with the house lit like a roman candle, the intruder(s) would abandon their thoughts of mayhem. Several minutes passed in agony with me peeking out windows. Shadows stretched and curled suspiciously at every angle. The basement! What if they noticed a window ajar? What if right now they were lying down on their bellies, wriggling into my home?

I shooed my two intimidating dogs down the basement stairs, or tried to. They both blinked back, wagged their nubs and yawned. I turned on the light. No masked men greeted me at the base of the stairs. I pushed my big male, Murphy, down in front of me and desparately whispered "cat", but he refused to believe any intelligent feline would be so foolish as to be prowling in my dark basement.

I tiptoed down, slowly so the step wouldn't creak, but the traitorous, ancient steps moaned anyway. I could taste my heart in my throat - I was deaf from its pounding in my ears. At last I was in my bright office, and I was alone. The dogs followed me into the pool room. No one. I tip-toed back up the steps, convinced that the "whoever it was" was now upstairs. Possibly they were in my children's bedroom this very moment, murdering them quietly in their sleep. I stopped by their door and pressed my ear against it. Nothing but snores.

I ran back to my room and grabbed the cordless. It was then that I, huddled in my gramma nightgown, heard distinct footsteps on the basement stair. One by one they fell, thuds in the stillness. I was paralyzed. I remember thinking OMIGOD but not being able to scream or move a muscle. The footfalls grew closer. Now they were coming down the hall, closer, closer. I threw myself backward into my bedroom closet, nearly crying out when a high heel stabbed my hip. My free hand scrabbled for anything which might make a fair weapon. Thank you Jesus - I found the plastic training knife my husband used in his defense instructor classes and held it out before me like a sword as I dialed the numbers 9-1-1 in quick succession. The heavy feet of "whoever" were nearly to the closet.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"I..." One word was all that I could force from my constricted throat.

"What is your emergency?"

"There's someone in my house," I gasped.

Suddenly, the 'whoever' was a long shadow falling at my feet. I closed my eyes and shouted my address at the receiver, thinking at least they'll know where to find my bloody remains.

"Mommy?"

All I can say is, Thank God I did not have a loaded weapon. My husband has only his service weapon now and since he carries it for his job, the safe is empty at night. And it will remain locked now that I have these hideous panic attacks, partially diagnosed by a fellow employee who heard this disturbing tale and related that he too had 'attacks'.

I did not tell my physician the full details of this for fear he might contact social services or the loony bin, only that I had paralyzing episodes nightly and could not sleep. The attacks were beginning to effect my work and my mood everywhere. I was edgy.

The ironic part of this, I see now, is that throughout this first 'occurrence', my ferocious, man-eating beasts, whom I thought would rip to shreds anything that entered my home or even hinted at doing so, stared at me as if I were suddenly unhinged, which I sometimes think I am, but when the local lawmen, beckoned by my terrible 911 call, perused the property with their shining beacons of flashlights at 2 a.m. and banged open the gates, they barked their fool heads off.

I am convinced each night now that someone, something has either gained access to, or is attempting to gain access to, my formerly safe home. The fact that my canines ignored the jarred gate eats at my nerves. I want to install an alarm system but am convinced any thief could easily bypass one (thanks to reality TV where participants agree to have their home analyzed for security). I refuse to watch television shows based on true accounts of murder, torture, child abduction or, especially, home invasion. They only add fuel to the already well-fed fire.

My husband tries to understand, but how can someone, until they have this ridiculous 'condition'? Can they really? Imagine being so frightened you would pee your pants if your bladder was full? So terrified you have no breath to scream? Expecting anything, everything, all at once. The smallest, slightest sound makes you certain your life is about to end. Or your childrens'?

I even once considered suicide as a way to end the episodes, until Xanax. They were becoming so horrid, I could not stand for the sun to set, knowing that I would be frightened to death again.

Sometimes I wish I was bipolar, like my mother. Then I could be really, really happy about something, then really sad, then super happy again. But I'd never know when that would happen. I wouldn't live every sunset like "Groundhog Day".

I've been through 2 different day meds now - the ones I take for the general anxiety - but the Xanax works well for knocking me out at night. I hope there are people out there who have found peace with some drug cocktail I have yet to find. This is a miserable disorder that my physician says is caused by my body's inability to turn off the "fight or flight" synapses in my brain which fire all at once. Suddenly, with a mere thought, a rush of adrenaline floods my veins, and no rationalization will douse the flames. My mother-in-law claims I need only to pray and to realize that God will keep me safe, and though I do believe in God, I know that quite a few honest, God-fearing folk are violated every day. They prayed, didn't they?

If you are tormented by panic disorder, just know that you are not alone. Ironic, huh? I feel like I'm never alone. But seriously, join a forum, join a therapy group, and find a doctor that is experienced with anxiety and panic disorders. Do not dismiss something like this because you're too embarrassed to discuss it with your physician. You are not crazy. If you feel like a nut, come on over and I'll avail you of some more tales about my mother. She makes anyone feel sane.