Panic Attacks revisited

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself: nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance."

Panic Attack? Down, girl!

My father's doctor warned "If you ever want to see your dad again, you'd better come back to California."
My 56-yer-old dad was in one wing of a San Jose hospital with terminal lung cancer; mom in the other wing with a shattered ankle, awaiting an artificial one. I borrowed airline money, hopped the redeye flight from Minneapolis, then scurried back and forth between the two wings once I landed.
For the next three months in 1973, I helped care for both of them at home. In those days, doctors in their wisdom didn't tell a terminal patient the truth; that fell to me, the day before dad died, when he asked me if he was going to get better. I told him the truth, and I guess he gave up the fight: he went to the hospital and died next day.
After he passed, I stuck around another month until mom was stable, then left her to the care of my sister and brother. I drove dad's van back to Minnesota to take up my life where I had dropped everything.

A year later, I had given up the laidback longhair life and taken a job under some pressure: haircut, suit, tie, the whole shebang. After work one day, I hopped into my beetle, and dropped my car keys. When I reached down to retrieve them, I started to shake uncontrollably. I began to sweat, and could hardly breathe.

I had absolutely no idea what was wrong (it was the first panic attack I had ever had). Frantic, I checked a local emergency clinic, but they were no help. I stayed home the next day, and the day after that. My boss called to see what was wrong. When I told him, he advised me to get back to work immediately, or I'd get worse. (I didn't realize it at the time, but that was exactly the right advice.)
My doctor had no idea what my problem was. It took about four years before I hung a label on that nervous malady. In a newspaper article, the description of agoraphobia Fear of the marketplace named an antagonist I could begin to deal with.
While I struggled, however, if I could find a reason to avoid leaving my house, I would. If I did have to leave it, I would make a tightly-planned schedule, so I'd run multiple errands per trip. Biofeedback, drugs, etc., nothing seemed to help. I was at least able to leave my house; pity the poor woman I saw on TV that hadn't left hers in 20 years.
In my lost 17 years, I had driven to California and back for a honeymoon, moved to Indiana to work on a magazine, attended trade shows in Dallas and Chicago, started a magazine of my own, given speeches, had a radio talk show, played golf, forcing myself past panic, day after day.
Then, after 17 years of fear, I was divorced. It became crystal clear to me that if I continued to let panic control me, I would end up a hermit.

Soon I'll talk about how I've (mostly) gotten beyond that panicky feeling.

Solve Anxiety and Panic Disorder

Walking from work at my stressful job in 1973, I had no idea my life was going to change so severely. I was 31, had a pretty fiance, and I was in good health. Clambering into my old black Beetle, I dropped my keys...

and suddenly I began shaking...and sweating...and this feeling of foreboding, of impending doom, filled me.

I had never ever felt this way before. I had been an iron man, a street wizard, a silver-toned devil. I had hitchhiked my way around the country, sold art and string art to stay solvent, slept in cars and tents and, once, in a burned-out gas station.

Finally I gathered myself together and drove to my apartment, and made my first mistake: I stayed home from work for a couple of days. I telephoned my boss and told him what had happened, and he gave me good advice ("Just keep going. Don't let it affect you.") , but I ignored it. By not keeping on, I became sensitized to anxiety.

A few days later, 15 minutes into the performance, I walked out of "The Nutcracker Suite" at the local university and sat waiting for my girlfriend outside, chain-smoking, in agony over what was happening to me.

I went to a clinic, and talked to my doctor, but no one had an answer. I began to hate to leave the apartment. I had to force myself to go to the store, or to the dentist. I would stand in the front porch, looking at the people playing in the park across the street, wanting to join a group but unable to force myself to do so.

A couple of years later, I read a newspaper article about agoraphobia, fear of the marketplace, and recognized my symptoms. At last I had a name for it.

Over the next few years, I tried psychotherapy, tranquilizers, biofeedback...none of it helped much.

I became a freelance writer so I could work at home. I started a magazine, starred on a local radio talk show for a couple of years, held seminars, gave speeches...all while holding that dread at bay. I didn't want it to affect my marriage, but...

one day in 1989 my wife announced she wanted a divorce, and moved out. Suddenly I was faced with a jarring reality. I had to either break out of this trap, or become a hermit, with only my dog for company.

About this time, I came across a book: "Hope and Help for your Nerves" by Australian author Dr. Claire Weekes. (It's still in print today, 17 years after her death in 1990, and continues to help sufferers worldwide. Reviews in Amazon.com almost all give it five stars.)

I read that, particularly her comment that you learn to "float" through anxiety. To overcome my aloneness, I joined a singles group and "floated" my way through uneasiness, "sense of impending doom", and the like.

Now, as you can see by this blog, I'm restored from my agoraphobia after 16 years. Oh, I still get nervous, but I just let it wash over me. You can, too.