"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

"Sleep To Hide From Pain; Sleep To Escape From Depression"

 

“Sleep To Hide From Pain; Sleep To Escape From Depression”

 

 

03/05/14

 

 

To my dear, dear friends, and always constant readers,

 

 

To the best of my failing recollection, even in high school I had a schedule that was predictable, reliable, and relatively free form stress.

 

I would arrive home after school, and then spend the next few hours half-heartedly looking at what homework I had, and playing with my dog, King.

 

In time, my mother and father would come home from work, and preparations for supper would begin.   Afterwards—especially with my folks there—I would again glance-over what homework that I did have.

 

The balance of the evenings were spent conversing with my mom and dad, and—as evening turned into night—I felt a natural tiredness, having had a full day of occupation.

 

Although I had a nighttime curfew, it was unnecessary, as—by ‘bedtime’—I found myself yawning and sleepy.

 

I do not remember anything that disturbed me from getting into bed; and after a few minutes given over to getting settled-in, I would without difficulty fall into a full sleep that lasted all night long.

 

This was such a seemingly natural process that, frankly, I never gave it much thought, nor was I (as I would be later) particularly grateful.

 

Shortly after college, I began a twenty-five year ‘career’ working in health care, and in mental health…all on the night shift.

 

Now, there are several reasons that bring employees to work nights; some had small children at home, and/or spouces who worked during the day. 

 

Others were—frankly—misfits who could find steady employment no other place, and on no other shift.

 

I worked nights because it gave me the autonomy I craved, with no one, particularly always looking over my shoulder, or breathing down my neck.  I knew my job, and did it well, giving to the various positions I worked 120% of my interest and effort.

 

And while everyone is expendable (as so well evidenced in these times), I still was able to speak my mind.  And whenever a nurse, or a supervisor, or an Administrator got out of line, were stupid, or were in general jerks, I confronted them as harshly as I needed to.

Funny, but in all those years, I was never fired, or suspended.

My clients—many of whom had no family, or who had no family that cared about them—often considered me their family.  And they loved me fully as much as I loved them.

They knew my schedule better than did I; whenever I was off on vacation, or away on sick time, they were, I think, genuinely concerned about my health, and when I would return.

 

But night shift exacts a dreary toll on one’s health, and mental well-being.

I found it almost impossible to sleep during the day; surrounded in full by a world that constantly boomed and made noise.

Then—too—I believe—is the evolutionally dictates to sleep when it’s dark, and to be awake when the sun comes up.  That is in itself a long, and established history that the night shift (established in WWII to meet production demands) could ever hope to overcome.

 

I tried to make my bedroom as dark as was possible, with light-blocking shades, sheers, and heavy curtains.  At one point, I even wore a sleep mask to make-believe that it was nighttime.

 

For a while, I was young, and could withstand the rigors of an aberrant, and unnatural wake/sleep cycle.  But time and advancing years proved to be the enemy.

I was tired all the time, and exhausted much of the time.

 

Winter was the worst.  While driving home in the morning, with the car’s heat and defrost on, I would get so sleepy that at least on three occasions, I ran off the road, recovering just in time to avid an accident.

 

In 2002, when I was forty-eight, my world as I knew it exploded and was completely destroyed.

A simple, botched, dental procedure went horribly, horribly wrong.  I was consumed in a pain the kind of which I had never before known.

I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t sleep, yet I found it impossible to get out of bed.  All night long I would cower in agony, trembling and afraid, saying what ragged prayers that I could.

I one month, I lost thirty pounds, and even though I was finally being treated by a professional, I began to have these awful panic attacks. 

With it came a depression so severe, that I had to be hospitalized for it.

 

During the past twelve years of my disability, life—as I had ever known it—was changed, pulled, stretched out of recognition, altered beyond recognition, and with it developed a diminishing.

I have since lost interest in so many, many things.

 

When I awake, it is to a static world; my day lies before me like a prison sentence; and my only schedule—now—are to the few doctors that I must see, and mostly to medication times; for the medications have loomed large in my life.

 

My front door and patio doors might as well be blocked by force fields, so seldom do I venture out.

 

I am afraid.  Afraid. (And will—I hope—address that fear in another entry).

 

Every evening, I know that I want to go to bed, and to sleep.  I take everything I can to make me drowsy. 

My bedroom has become a sort of battleground, where sleep is broken, torn apart by nightmares, or unsettled thought.

Or, too frequent awakenings.  Or bathroom calls.

Alone—with the roar of my disquieting thoughts, I crave the kind of sleep that restores.  But would most gladly settle for the kind of sleep that detaches one from pain; hiding form the pain.

 

Oh, but could I sleep to escape from the depression.  That knowing that each morning—when I reluctantly awake—this ‘new’ day will be the same.  As tortured as was the one previous.

 

Several weeks ago, my cousin gave me a little tomato plant to keep on my back deck.  How can it realize that its existence lies solely with my ability…or inability to go out to water it.

I can see it through the glass door, yet often cannot bring myself to open it and go outside.

 

 

Oh, my dearest friends, what is the answer?  Where is help and wellness?

I very much look forward to (and rely) upon your most kind and supportive comments.

 

I wish for you lambent days, free of pain, or of lessened pain.  Peaceable, quiet days, surrounded by those who love you.

And oh…how I wish so much for you balmy, and enjoyable evenings, and nights of wonderfully restorative sleep, as ever watched over, and kept safe by guardian angels!

 

 

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

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles