Hello, all. I've had relatively low level anxiety all my life, but I didn't know that until a little over a year ago. I was seeing a therapist for my depression. She asked if I had anxiety or worried too much, and I gave her a few examples of situations I felt warranted worry -- things everyone would feel anxious about. She said I definitely had anxiety. It was news to me, I thought everyone felt the way I did. But it helped me to realize my thought processes for what they were.
May 1st of this year, one year to the hour since my uncle's passing and the day before my grandmother's memorial service, I had the worst panic attack of my life. I found my stethoscope, to reassure myself my heart was fine. Big mistake. I got to hear my panic attack happen firsthand. My heart rate sky rocketed, which in turn made my terror level much worse. The fear of certain death got so bad, I considered ending my life. Because that was less scary than waiting for it to happen. I never wanted to feel that level of debilitating, all-consuming fear again.
I have had a panic attack every night since, with the exception of two or three relatively peaceful evenings. I'm in a constant state of worry during the day, and I'm hyper aware of every little muscle twitch, heart flutter, spasm, and gurgle. Headaches are aneurysms, brain tumors, memory-eating parasites. Tachycardia is a heart attack. The end is always waiting. Rationally, I know by now, I'm not dying. But no matter how many times I survive this crippling wave of horror, this time is always the end. This time is different. This time is real. And I'll say that next time, too.
Every cardiac test came back negative, as we all have come to find. But that does little to comfort me when I'm fighting for air and my heart can't decide what bass line to beat to. I started obsessively checking my pulse, to what benefit is beyond me. It doesn't assuage my nerves, in fact it's usually the opposite.
A few days ago I hit my boiling point. After seven hours of knowing I was done for, I went to see my doctor. By the time she entered the room, I was hysterical. She prescribed a higher dose of anxiety medication, added a xanax PRN, and temazepam for sleep. She also insisted I seek professional help to identify the underlying causes of my anxiety, weed out the triggers, and hope to gain some semblance of control over my life.
I am moving out of state in two weeks, which has been wreaking havoc on my ability to concentrate and my total lack of energy makes packing seem impossible.
I'm so tired of being afraid. I'm so tired of being tired. And I am so incredibly tired of this being the only freaking thing I can talk about. It's all I know anymore. I've become a weeping, shaking, husk of a person. It's time for this to stop.
To someone without panic disorder, and maybe even some with it, this may seem overly dramatic. But this is me, every day. The rare moments of clarity make it that much harder when the panic sets in again.
I have hope. For the future. For recovery. For sanity. But it's a long, winding road. I'm beyond ready to take the first step.
