"Afraid. Afraid. Why Am I So Afraid?"

 

“Afraid.  Afraid.  Why Am I So Afraid?”

 

 

03/25/14

 

 

To my ever-dearest friends, and always kind and loyal readers,

 

 

Last June, Daisy (my beloved, canine companion of over fourteen years) died quietly in my arms after a prolonged illness.  And I felt lost, uncertain, not knowing how to react, to what to do.

I had saved a pretty, pink coverlet—done all over in hearts—and in this I gently wrapped her.  My wonderful neighbors came over when I telephoned them, and he carried Daisy out to be buried in the backyard, in front of the open shed where my Mom had first discovered her in mid-November, 1999.  It seemed somehow proper and right to do so.

 

For days I cried, and missed her, and thought that death—somehow—had been most unfair.

 

Death may come quickly, as the result of injury.  Or it may be expected, with advancing age, and physical failure.  Sometimes, it is even yearned-for, as a final end to unresolved and incurable horrible, and intractable pain.

 

Nevertheless, death comes as a surprise; we are caught off guard, and never know what to say, or do, or hardly, to feel.

 

What did hit me shortly after Daisy’s death, was that with the passing of my father, my mother, and—now—dear Daisy, that for the first time in twenty-eight years, I was completely alone in the house.

 

Where once there had been conversations, companionship, the various noises of three people going about their business, laughter, love, and…light, now the house seemed too large, too silent, and too full of shadowed memories.

The house took on an unnatural air, looking like a stage set, after the actors and the audience have gone.

 

If I looked just the right way, I could see my dad sitting in his recliner, reading science fiction…is favorite; or my mom, sitting on the sofa—armed crossed—watching television.

And, whenever I went into my bedroom, I looked for Daisy to be there, sleeping on the rug besides my bed.

 

I began to feel a little lost and afraid.  The Agoraphobia keeps me to my house, and room after room was devoid of life.

 

 

Then, in July (one day after I had had all my medications refilled, including my pain narcotics), sometime between about 11:30, and 4:30 am, someone broke into the house (while I was still sleeping!), and took almost ALL of my medications, leaving only the vitamins, and supplements.

They had even taken a bottle that contained Daisy’s breathing pills.

 

I woke up about 3:30 to come out to the kitchen to take a pain pill, and that’s when I discovered that almost all of them had been stolen.

They most have been in a hurry, as in their flight, they missed a little, 7-day pill box on another counter (and it was this I used, until I could get the rest refilled).

 

I went wild with anxiety and cold fear, tearing up the kitchen, looking in places that my meds had never been in in hopes of finding them.

 

 

Just before 6:00am, I—still in pajamas—out on my shoes, and grabbed my portable oxygen and my cane, and hobbled-over to my neighbors, waking them up; begging them for help of some kind…any kind.

They immediately came over—still in their nightclothes to access the situation.

 

 

It was then I found out that the sliding-glass door had been left unlocked the night before, and no light left on the back porch.

 

My friend found that my carpet was wet (as it had been raining), and a walk-around the house revealed a footprint and, that bottle of Daisy’s medication.

 

My nerves were so completely shot, as, not only had they broken into what I had hitherto thought of as my safe refuge, but, that they might have paused to listen to my snoring, or worse, looked in on me as I slept.  This last terrified me.

 

 

The police were called, and a report was made, and fingerprints were dusted for.

 

Even with a police report, my pain doctor refused to re-write my pain prescriptions, and it took a telephone call from my medical primary to get them filled again.

 

Of course, I had to pay cash for all my missing medications, and it took me three months of large payments to the pharmacy to pay them off.

I am just grateful that they would let me run up a tab with them, or I would be lost in unutterable pain, until I would no longer want to live.

 

 

My very dearest friends, while I have been anxious, panicky, and afraid before, now, I began to be afraid all the time.

As soon as I could, I arranged to have the doors marked with alarms, and stickers on the windows from a reputable company I make monthly payment to.

 

The days—now—are bad enough; sudden noises, or movements, or flashes of color cause me to startle, and to be afraid.

The evenings—while long—pass with only moderate to severe anxiety, especially as it nears bedtime.

 

It is the nights that are the worst.

 

Most evenings, around 8 or 9:00pm, my neighbor’s two dogs start barking.  And it is so completely dark outside.  I cannot tell ‘what’ they may be barking about; or, ‘who’.

 

My imagination plays all kind of cruel tricks on me.

 

For example, my bedroom is in the back of the house, far removed from the street.

 

And yet—several months ago—I thought I heard voices outside my window; unintelligible conversations with the odd cough thrown in.

I telephoned the police one time, and waited nervously while they sent a deputy out to walk around my place brandishing a flashlight.

Of course…nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

 

Sometime after that, I could swear I heard voices again.  And I lay in bed, afraid to try to go to sleep, for fear of someone else breaking in, or vandalizing the place.

 

I hesitated to mention it to my neighbor for fear of sounding crazy.  But it was then that I was told that it was a neighborhood, teenage boy, out on the streets—after midnight, until 1 or 2:00am-- talking to friends.

 

I felt so utterly stupid, as for months…I dreaded the night, and being too afraid to go to bed.

 

 

The policeman—and, several of my neighbors—had suggested that—probably—the thieves were known to me; that they knew me, my schedule, and where I kept my medications.

 

And while this will sound strange, my dearest friends, in a way, I hope that it was a friend, or someone who knew me. 

Of course, I will never know.

But….there’s this to consider: an acquaintance or friend would be very much less likely to harm me… and, in a way, to them, I owe my life.

Far too many of these narcotics robberies end in fatalities, usually that of the homeowner.

 

 

Presently, I am on a three-year waiting list for a German Shepard, service dog whose deep growl and barks will alert any potential thieves into going somewhere else.

But the waiting is long, and---frankly—nerve-wracking.

 

 

I usually wake with a severe panic attack, and now find myself afraid of any little, untoward thing.  And, often, these attacks leave me unsettled, questioning, and afraid.

 

 

My dearest, kindest friends, I look to you for suggestions and help.  The fear is beginning to take over my life.

 

What makes you afraid?  How do you possibly deal with it?  Do you find that medication helps?

I am already on a fixed dose of Ativan every day and evening, with a half-dose in the afternoon if I am very jittery, and cannot seem to calm down.

 

Oh, my precious friends, I wish for you no pain, or lessened pain.  I wish for you quiet and peaceful days, surrounded by those who truly love you, so that you may never be alone.

I wish for you quiet and contemplative evenings, and balmy, dreamy, comfortable nights free from distress, fear, or upset.

And I wish you a quiet and restorative night of pleasant sleep, as ever, watched over by gentle angels.

And I would most wish for you all the happiness that your kind hearts can hold!

 

Please, please know that I think of you so very, very often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’

 

“Afraid.  Afraid.  Why Am I So Afraid?”

 

 

03/25/14

 

 

To my ever-dearest friends, and always kind and loyal readers,

 

 

Last June, Daisy (my beloved, canine companion of over fourteen years) died quietly in my arms after a prolonged illness.  And I felt lost, uncertain, not knowing how to react, to what to do.

I had saved a pretty, pink coverlet—done all over in hearts—and in this I gently wrapped her.  My wonderful neighbors came over when I telephoned them, and he carried Daisy out to be buried in the backyard, in front of the open shed where my Mom had first discovered her in mid-November, 1999.  It seemed somehow proper and right to do so.

 

For days I cried, and missed her, and thought that death—somehow—had been most unfair.

 

Death may come quickly, as the result of injury.  Or it may be expected, with advancing age, and physical failure.  Sometimes, it is even yearned-for, as a final end to unresolved and incurable horrible, and intractable pain.

 

Nevertheless, death comes as a surprise; we are caught off guard, and never know what to say, or do, or hardly, to feel.

 

What did hit me shortly after Daisy’s death, was that with the passing of my father, my mother, and—now—dear Daisy, that for the first time in twenty-eight years, I was completely alone in the house.

 

Where once there had been conversations, companionship, the various noises of three people going about their business, laughter, love, and…light, now the house seemed too large, too silent, and too full of shadowed memories.

The house took on an unnatural air, looking like a stage set, after the actors and the audience have gone.

 

If I looked just the right way, I could see my dad sitting in his recliner, reading science fiction…is favorite; or my mom, sitting on the sofa—armed crossed—watching television.

And, whenever I went into my bedroom, I looked for Daisy to be there, sleeping on the rug besides my bed.

 

I began to feel a little lost and afraid.  The Agoraphobia keeps me to my house, and room after room was devoid of life.

 

 

Then, in July (one day after I had had all my medications refilled, including my pain narcotics), sometime between about 11:30, and 4:30 am, someone broke into the house (while I was still sleeping!), and took almost ALL of my medications, leaving only the vitamins, and supplements.

They had even taken a bottle that contained Daisy’s breathing pills.

 

I woke up about 3:30 to come out to the kitchen to take a pain pill, and that’s when I discovered that almost all of them had been stolen.

They most have been in a hurry, as in their flight, they missed a little, 7-day pill box on another counter (and it was this I used, until I could get the rest refilled).

 

I went wild with anxiety and cold fear, tearing up the kitchen, looking in places that my meds had never been in in hopes of finding them.

 

 

Just before 6:00am, I—still in pajamas—out on my shoes, and grabbed my portable oxygen and my cane, and hobbled-over to my neighbors, waking them up; begging them for help of some kind…any kind.

They immediately came over—still in their nightclothes to access the situation.

 

 

It was then I found out that the sliding-glass door had been left unlocked the night before, and no light left on the back porch.

 

My friend found that my carpet was wet (as it had been raining), and a walk-around the house revealed a footprint and, that bottle of Daisy’s medication.

 

My nerves were so completely shot, as, not only had they broken into what I had hitherto thought of as my safe refuge, but, that they might have paused to listen to my snoring, or worse, looked in on me as I slept.  This last terrified me.

 

 

The police were called, and a report was made, and fingerprints were dusted for.

 

Even with a police report, my pain doctor refused to re-write my pain prescriptions, and it took a telephone call from my medical primary to get them filled again.

 

Of course, I had to pay cash for all my missing medications, and it took me three months of large payments to the pharmacy to pay them off.

I am just grateful that they would let me run up a tab with them, or I would be lost in unutterable pain, until I would no longer want to live.

 

 

My very dearest friends, while I have been anxious, panicky, and afraid before, now, I began to be afraid all the time.

As soon as I could, I arranged to have the doors marked with alarms, and stickers on the windows from a reputable company I make monthly payment to.

 

The days—now—are bad enough; sudden noises, or movements, or flashes of color cause me to startle, and to be afraid.

The evenings—while long—pass with only moderate to severe anxiety, especially as it nears bedtime.

 

It is the nights that are the worst.

 

Most evenings, around 8 or 9:00pm, my neighbor’s two dogs start barking.  And it is so completely dark outside.  I cannot tell ‘what’ they may be barking about; or, ‘who’.

 

My imagination plays all kind of cruel tricks on me.

 

For example, my bedroom is in the back of the house, far removed from the street.

 

And yet—several months ago—I thought I heard voices outside my window; unintelligible conversations with the odd cough thrown in.

I telephoned the police one time, and waited nervously while they sent a deputy out to walk around my place brandishing a flashlight.

Of course…nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

 

Sometime after that, I could swear I heard voices again.  And I lay in bed, afraid to try to go to sleep, for fear of someone else breaking in, or vandalizing the place.

 

I hesitated to mention it to my neighbor for fear of sounding crazy.  But it was then that I was told that it was a neighborhood, teenage boy, out on the streets—after midnight, until 1 or 2:00am-- talking to friends.

 

I felt so utterly stupid, as for months…I dreaded the night, and being too afraid to go to bed.

 

 

The policeman—and, several of my neighbors—had suggested that—probably—the thieves were known to me; that they knew me, my schedule, and where I kept my medications.

 

And while this will sound strange, my dearest friends, in a way, I hope that it was a friend, or someone who knew me. 

Of course, I will never know.

But….there’s this to consider: an acquaintance or friend would be very much less likely to harm me… and, in a way, to them, I owe my life.

Far too many of these narcotics robberies end in fatalities, usually that of the homeowner.

 

 

Presently, I am on a three-year waiting list for a German Shepard, service dog whose deep growl and barks will alert any potential thieves into going somewhere else.

But the waiting is long, and---frankly—nerve-wracking.

 

 

I usually wake with a severe panic attack, and now find myself afraid of any little, untoward thing.  And, often, these attacks leave me unsettled, questioning, and afraid.

 

 

My dearest, kindest friends, I look to you for suggestions and help.  The fear is beginning to take over my life.

 

What makes you afraid?  How do you possibly deal with it?  Do you find that medication helps?

I am already on a fixed dose of Ativan every day and evening, with a half-dose in the afternoon if I am very jittery, and cannot seem to calm down.

 

Oh, my precious friends, I wish for you no pain, or lessened pain.  I wish for you quiet and peaceful days, surrounded by those who truly love you, so that you may never be alone.

I wish for you quiet and contemplative evenings, and balmy, dreamy, comfortable nights free from distress, fear, or upset.

And I wish you a quiet and restorative night of pleasant sleep, as ever, watched over by gentle angels.

And I would most wish for you all the happiness that your kind hearts can hold!

 

Please, please know that I think of you so very, very often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Its Twelve: Three-Four A.M...."

03/22/14

To my very, dearest friends, and constant readers here at MDJunction,

I

"Its twelve: three-four a.m., and I could use a friend
to-perhaps-sit quiet with me here
until my shaking stops, and all of my most recent nightmares end;
and pause, to wipe-away a tear.
Or, was it just a leg cramp and a migraine that drove me out of bed
to find my way out to my kitchen chair, instead?
For I could use a kind, devoted friend to help calm every fear
until, whatever bleak angels I could summon-up, attend.

II

It's two: five-six a.m., and I could use an arm
to hold me up when I cannot find my way;
one whose steady strength would keep me safe from harm ( or, to help me don my socks to keep me warm ! ).
As untold, ‘Fibro-flare's' unutterable agony blurs the sight, and makes all stationary objects sway.
To help me to the bathroom down the hall,
when a tired unsteadiness might make me fall.
That arm ( and hand ) so gently touch the crying pain away
and somehow reassures from all alarm.

III

It's four: one-eight a.m., and I could use a voice
that-patiently-would ever speak to me in quiet tones:
"Your illness never was your choice...
You have nothing to atone."
Although its very late, and, both of us still up,
please light my trembling cigarettes, and share my mug of coffee, heated up.
"Although you may feel so lonely, yet you have never been alone.
You didn't realize that others love you too? For that, alone, rejoice."

IV

It's five: two-six a.m., and I could use a prayer;
some whispered words of hope, from an ever-gentle heart,
to cause some lasting comfort to be visited there.
Oh, kind, enduring friend, please stay with me until the dawn...its greying light impart.
The medication-by itself-can never chase away all pain, all fear.
Instead...a grateful prayer, while said with growing sigh, is answered back, that God is always near,
and that-despite my often tortured, lonely pain-He will always keep us in his loving care.

V

It's eight: one-five, a.m., and I could use some sense of ease.
Oh, dearest friend, how can I near in full thank you for keeping quiet vigil with me, ‘til the accumulated medications take effect?
For who else would-without question-ruin their day from lack of sleep, to tend to my desires?
For your unselfish kindness in my frequent hours of need, helped keep my monsters far away; I cannot help but offer you my love, and my respect.
The house and street-less quiet now-moves into another day, the twin to all the others.
While dear Daisy sleeps most fitfully on the rug, at fourteen, she-too-has pain, not unlike my own, which-unchecked-leeches life away, and smothers.
Remorse, regret, and sorrowed pain, will repeat an infinity of times I suspect,
but in your greater good, my caring friend, please know I wish you joy, true happiness...and peace.

End

Please know that I think of you so very often, and that I can never thank you enough for your having befriended me.

And, please always know that I love you dearly!

‘Zahc'

"Beyond Panic. Past Fear. To Unutterable Terror"

 

“Beyond Panic.  Past Fear.  To Unutterable Terror”

 

 

03/13/14

 

 

As always, to my dearest friends, and ever-constant and loyal readers,

 

 

(I must first make the disclaimer that I am not a therapist, nor am I licensed; so that anything I might say is the result of my own opinions, and my own experiences)

 

 

For those of you who suffer (as do I) from frequent moderate to severe panic attacks, I hardly need tell you just how debilitating, and utterly horrible they can be.

 

 

But for those of you who do not have panic attacks, especially to those family members and friends of someone who does have them, I would ask that you kindly take a moment or two to imagine.

 

I would ask—please—that you sit quietly, eyes closed, and take perhaps five minutes or so to try to imagine your worst panic experience.

 

It can be the recollection of a serious illness, a most recent might mare that seemed to go on and on; it maybe a latent childhood trauma, or even a marked fear of heights, closed-in places, spiders or snakes.

 

Try to imagine how you felt then, and how you feel now.

 

My guess is that it will be nearly impossible to summon up and to sustain these horrifying events.

 

Why?  Because—in general—the body and the mind have remarkable self-defense mechanisms that help to cope during that time of terror.  And, time is also an important factor.

 

Your illness—however severe will usually—in time result in complete wellness.

That nightmare that you found so unsettling will fade away to nothingness during the day’s onslaught of stimuli as you go to work, school, or go about the various tasks necessary in daily life; the car, groceries, meal preparation, and so on.

That seemingly awful childhood memory is usually so completely repressed, that only medication, and hypnotic regression therapy will touch them; and then, the information is often illusory, wrong, and certainly, is unreliable.

Phobias, such as fear of heights, and of closed-in places are overcome by stating out of the basement, of simply taking the stairs.

The dreadful fear of snakes, as an example, are most successfully dealt with by complete avoidance, which these days, is easy enough to do.

 

There are—in addition—at least two reasons why panic attacks are so difficult to understand, or to tolerate.

 

 

The first is the fault of the English language.

 

We may—perhaps have upwards of a hundred, different terms, names, phrases and slang to describe the genitalia.

However, we use the word ‘panic’ to describe that moment of anxiety when you cannot recall where you last left your car keys, all the way to the other end of the spectrum to try to label, and understand those unpredictable, harrowing, and terrifying episodes that lead the individual to think that they are dying.

 

Secondly, unless you happen to be in a crowded theater, and suddenly shots are heard, and at that moment everyone is fearful and afraid, even that anxiety will soon fade.

 

Panic attacks are a singular affliction; the person who suffers from them suffers alone, quite without any measureable way to quantify and make meaning of the attack,

In fact, until accurately diagnosed, the sufferer themselves may have no idea what is going on; only that they are desperately afraid, and paralyzed by fear for their very lives.

 

Panic attacks sometimes begin with a disruptive, anxious, or troubled thought that has no basis or reason in reality.

Swiftly, like some horrid, oily, black tide it rises until the mind and body can hold no more.

You are afraid.  Afraid.  And often don’t know why.  Frequently, there is no ‘why’.

As the panic attack worsens, you may be soaked in sweat; your heart is pounding until you feel as if it will suddenly burst form the chest walls.

There may be migraine, or a complete dullness of thought.

You want to scream, but can’t.  You can’t remain still, and yet you do not want to move, for fear of making the panic worse.

It is a spontaneous terror the kind of which you have NEVER experienced before.

When it is at its worst, you may even feel as if you are dying.

 

This is what brings so many panic sufferers to hospital emergency rooms; the threat of heart attack.

 

After a number of these flights from panic, in finding nothing exceptionally, physically wrong, is it then—perhaps—suggested that the individual may in fact have acute G.A.D. (Generalized Panic Disorder), and most severe panic attacks.

 

Once successfully diagnosed, the sufferer can being a combination of therapies, counselling, and possibly medication to help reduce the severity of the attacks, and hopefully return the sufferer to some kind of ability to function on a daily basis.

 

But this process is long, and the road to wellness twisted, as sometimes medication, after medication must be tried for their efficacy.  And therapeutic counseling once started must continued to have any benefit.

 

 

And still, there is no guarantee that the anxiety and the panic attacks will end completely; only that they be reduced in severity and frequency.  And thus allow the panic sufferer to better manage their lives.

 

About two years or so ago, I had spent at least two months of a summer battling double pneumonia. I was given double courses of the only, two antibiotic that will now work for me, and still, I was not well.

At nearly the end of my third course of antibiotics, my condition seemed to worsen.

I felt so ill that I could not move, and could hardly open my eyes.  It was to unutterable agony that I began to have panic attacks.

And while I was able to reason that much of my panic was irrational, still, I became so caught up in its relentless grip, that I became terrified.

It was a Sunday, early evening.  In desperation I telephoned my therapist AND my pain management doctor, neither of whom would return my calls.

I then began to telephone my medical Primary’s on-call; and this initiated a kind of back and forth, “We don’t really know what to tell you, but…if you continue to feel worse, go to the emergency room.”

 

Now please do not mistake me, I fully understand the necessity and purpose of hospitals; I still hate them.  I hate having to go to one. And I think that I loathe the emergency room worst.

 

Chairs packs one almost upon the next; all occupied by sick people with a variety of contagious illnesses.

Uncovered sneezing and coughing bathed the room in viruses and germs. 

There were sick babies who cried and cried.

There were young children with green, snotty noses, who ran about unsupervised by their parents.

The chairs were dirty. The doors handles were slimy with germs.  And even the triage nurse who evaluated each patient was sick.  In fact, in my experience, I have never seen a triage nurse who wasn’t sick.

 

Finally, I was shown to an exam cubicle, where began test after test, after scan, after x-ay, after lab work.

I thought and believed that they would finally admit me to the hospital for the pneumonia at least.

 

But as the results began to pour in, they showed that—in fact—there was nothing wrong with me.

I was astounded as for the first time, my mind and body betrayed me, and had—in fact—completely lied to me!

I had no traces of pneumonia.  Every test was normal.

To calm me down, I think I was given a pain pill, and a mild tranquilizer.

And at 5:30 that next morning, still in my pajamas, I arrived home to a silent and dark house.

I immediately dosed-up, patted Daisy, and went to be, completely flabbergasted.

All I accomplished was to run-up a huge emergency room bill that I am still making payments on.

 

 

When I next saw my therapist, he changed my Clonopin to Ativan.  My pain doctor raised my pain medication.

 

While I still have moderate to moderately severe panic attacks, the medication does seems to act as a kind of buffer.

 

 

My dearest friends, I rely so much upon your comments as they do give me a voice, and sense of purpose.

And…if I have managed to be of at least some, small help, that makes my heart happy.

So, I hope that you will comment, below. Please add your experiences and your thoughts.

 

 

I wish for you no pain, or much lessoned pain.  I wish for you a sense of calmness, or purpose, and of happiness.

I wish you be full-surrounded by those who love you, and who truly care and understand!

And I wish for you peaceable, pleasant days, and balmy nights free from nightmare or distress; watched over—as always—by sweet angels.

 

 

Please know that I do think of you so very, very often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’

 

“Beyond Panic.  Past Fear.  To Unutterable Terror”

 

 

03/13/14

 

 

As always, to my dearest friends, and ever-constant and loyal readers,

 

 

(I must first make the disclaimer that I am not a therapist, nor am I licensed; so that anything I might say is the result of my own opinions, and my own experiences)

 

 

For those of you who suffer (as do I) from frequent moderate to severe panic attacks, I hardly need tell you just how debilitating, and utterly horrible they can be.

 

 

But for those of you who do not have panic attacks, especially to those family members and friends of someone who does have them, I would ask that you kindly take a moment or two to imagine.

 

I would ask—please—that you sit quietly, eyes closed, and take perhaps five minutes or so to try to imagine your worst panic experience.

 

It can be the recollection of a serious illness, a most recent might mare that seemed to go on and on; it maybe a latent childhood trauma, or even a marked fear of heights, closed-in places, spiders or snakes.

 

Try to imagine how you felt then, and how you feel now.

 

My guess is that it will be nearly impossible to summon up and to sustain these horrifying events.

 

Why?  Because—in general—the body and the mind have remarkable self-defense mechanisms that help to cope during that time of terror.  And, time is also an important factor.

 

Your illness—however severe will usually—in time result in complete wellness.

That nightmare that you found so unsettling will fade away to nothingness during the day’s onslaught of stimuli as you go to work, school, or go about the various tasks necessary in daily life; the car, groceries, meal preparation, and so on.

That seemingly awful childhood memory is usually so completely repressed, that only medication, and hypnotic regression therapy will touch them; and then, the information is often illusory, wrong, and certainly, is unreliable.

Phobias, such as fear of heights, and of closed-in places are overcome by stating out of the basement, of simply taking the stairs.

The dreadful fear of snakes, as an example, are most successfully dealt with by complete avoidance, which these days, is easy enough to do.

 

There are—in addition—at least two reasons why panic attacks are so difficult to understand, or to tolerate.

 

 

The first is the fault of the English language.

 

We may—perhaps have upwards of a hundred, different terms, names, phrases and slang to describe the genitalia.

However, we use the word ‘panic’ to describe that moment of anxiety when you cannot recall where you last left your car keys, all the way to the other end of the spectrum to try to label, and understand those unpredictable, harrowing, and terrifying episodes that lead the individual to think that they are dying.

 

Secondly, unless you happen to be in a crowded theater, and suddenly shots are heard, and at that moment everyone is fearful and afraid, even that anxiety will soon fade.

 

Panic attacks are a singular affliction; the person who suffers from them suffers alone, quite without any measureable way to quantify and make meaning of the attack,

In fact, until accurately diagnosed, the sufferer themselves may have no idea what is going on; only that they are desperately afraid, and paralyzed by fear for their very lives.

 

Panic attacks sometimes begin with a disruptive, anxious, or troubled thought that has no basis or reason in reality.

Swiftly, like some horrid, oily, black tide it rises until the mind and body can hold no more.

You are afraid.  Afraid.  And often don’t know why.  Frequently, there is no ‘why’.

As the panic attack worsens, you may be soaked in sweat; your heart is pounding until you feel as if it will suddenly burst form the chest walls.

There may be migraine, or a complete dullness of thought.

You want to scream, but can’t.  You can’t remain still, and yet you do not want to move, for fear of making the panic worse.

It is a spontaneous terror the kind of which you have NEVER experienced before.

When it is at its worst, you may even feel as if you are dying.

 

This is what brings so many panic sufferers to hospital emergency rooms; the threat of heart attack.

 

After a number of these flights from panic, in finding nothing exceptionally, physically wrong, is it then—perhaps—suggested that the individual may in fact have acute G.A.D. (Generalized Panic Disorder), and most severe panic attacks.

 

Once successfully diagnosed, the sufferer can being a combination of therapies, counselling, and possibly medication to help reduce the severity of the attacks, and hopefully return the sufferer to some kind of ability to function on a daily basis.

 

But this process is long, and the road to wellness twisted, as sometimes medication, after medication must be tried for their efficacy.  And therapeutic counseling once started must continued to have any benefit.

 

 

And still, there is no guarantee that the anxiety and the panic attacks will end completely; only that they be reduced in severity and frequency.  And thus allow the panic sufferer to better manage their lives.

 

About two years or so ago, I had spent at least two months of a summer battling double pneumonia. I was given double courses of the only, two antibiotic that will now work for me, and still, I was not well.

At nearly the end of my third course of antibiotics, my condition seemed to worsen.

I felt so ill that I could not move, and could hardly open my eyes.  It was to unutterable agony that I began to have panic attacks.

And while I was able to reason that much of my panic was irrational, still, I became so caught up in its relentless grip, that I became terrified.

It was a Sunday, early evening.  In desperation I telephoned my therapist AND my pain management doctor, neither of whom would return my calls.

I then began to telephone my medical Primary’s on-call; and this initiated a kind of back and forth, “We don’t really know what to tell you, but…if you continue to feel worse, go to the emergency room.”

 

Now please do not mistake me, I fully understand the necessity and purpose of hospitals; I still hate them.  I hate having to go to one. And I think that I loathe the emergency room worst.

 

Chairs packs one almost upon the next; all occupied by sick people with a variety of contagious illnesses.

Uncovered sneezing and coughing bathed the room in viruses and germs. 

There were sick babies who cried and cried.

There were young children with green, snotty noses, who ran about unsupervised by their parents.

The chairs were dirty. The doors handles were slimy with germs.  And even the triage nurse who evaluated each patient was sick.  In fact, in my experience, I have never seen a triage nurse who wasn’t sick.

 

Finally, I was shown to an exam cubicle, where began test after test, after scan, after x-ay, after lab work.

I thought and believed that they would finally admit me to the hospital for the pneumonia at least.

 

But as the results began to pour in, they showed that—in fact—there was nothing wrong with me.

I was astounded as for the first time, my mind and body betrayed me, and had—in fact—completely lied to me!

I had no traces of pneumonia.  Every test was normal.

To calm me down, I think I was given a pain pill, and a mild tranquilizer.

And at 5:30 that next morning, still in my pajamas, I arrived home to a silent and dark house.

I immediately dosed-up, patted Daisy, and went to be, completely flabbergasted.

All I accomplished was to run-up a huge emergency room bill that I am still making payments on.

 

 

When I next saw my therapist, he changed my Clonopin to Ativan.  My pain doctor raised my pain medication.

 

While I still have moderate to moderately severe panic attacks, the medication does seems to act as a kind of buffer.

 

 

My dearest friends, I rely so much upon your comments as they do give me a voice, and sense of purpose.

And…if I have managed to be of at least some, small help, that makes my heart happy.

So, I hope that you will comment, below. Please add your experiences and your thoughts.

 

 

I wish for you no pain, or much lessoned pain.  I wish for you a sense of calmness, or purpose, and of happiness.

I wish you be full-surrounded by those who love you, and who truly care and understand!

And I wish for you peaceable, pleasant days, and balmy nights free from nightmare or distress; watched over—as always—by sweet angels.

 

 

Please know that I do think of you so very, very often, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles