My first really impressive panic attack was on a plane. (Not to brag....) I was flying alone from Palm Springs back to New York. I had been nurturing a fear of flying--which combined my hatred of confined spaces with my hatred of heights. The night before the flight, I'd watched a bad sitcom in which a plane was called "a small metal coffin speeding through the sky."
The morning of the flight, my then-boyfriend texted me to ask if I wanted to see a play called "Daniel's Husband." This seemed to be a pre-marriage-proposal overture--or was it?--and so I felt jittery. (As Sondheim would say, "Excited AND Scared.")
Also, the cab driver had some kind of disorder and could not stop talking about a tourist who once went up into the hills in Palm Springs, strayed off the path, and eventually died of starvation.
So: You get on the plane, you're thinking of the metal coffin, your nose is congested, you're overheated. A perfect storm. I remember staring at the final chapters of "Harry Potter II"--not a great book--and realizing I had lost all interest in the story. I was so frustrated with J.K. Rowling and her bland sentences. I couldn't track all the references to water and mirrors. Moaning Myrtle--who was she? And Tom Riddle--so, so much backstory about Tom Riddle.
If I could not maintain an interest in Harry Potter, I thought, I could no longer maintain an interest in the world. Printed words were a main thing tethering me to existence. It was as if all tastes had suddenly disappeared; the world had become ash.
I knew I could not inhabit my skin for the next two or three hours. The people next to me were friendly--they saw the panic in my eyes--and they offered to switch seats so I could have the aisle. This wasn't good enough. I could not remain seated. I made a sudden lunge for the bathroom--not sure what would have happened there--and the officious gay steward on the intercom became enraged, as if I were brandishing a bomb. I hope that man rots in hell.
I returned to my seat and seemed to enter a fugue state for several minutes. Just total inner chaos, like a sensation of endless falling. Then--just as suddenly as it had arrived--the attack had passed.
And here's what I've learned since. A panic attack always passes. In the span of twenty or thirty minutes. Also, a clear nose is your ally. And light, loose clothing. And deep breaths.
Curiously, none of these steps makes the attack go away instantaneously. Even knowing that the attack is transient doesn't help all that much. It's hard to *know* much of anything when you're in the midst of the attack.
But: Such is life. I will always remember my Harry Potter adventure. I'm told it's good to have Sudoku on hand--at all times--if you're the nervous type.
P.S. Klonopin--even just as a symbolic token--is also not a bad idea.
P.P.S. Though I don't always love Ariana Grande's work, I love "Breathing." Ms. Grande was in the studio, having a panic attack--which is maybe common, after Manchester--and she was told to keep breathing. This became a song. I'm sure you can find bits of figurative resonance--but, on another level, Ms. Grande is just literally commanding herself to inhale. I find this moving.
The morning of the flight, my then-boyfriend texted me to ask if I wanted to see a play called "Daniel's Husband." This seemed to be a pre-marriage-proposal overture--or was it?--and so I felt jittery. (As Sondheim would say, "Excited AND Scared.")
Also, the cab driver had some kind of disorder and could not stop talking about a tourist who once went up into the hills in Palm Springs, strayed off the path, and eventually died of starvation.
So: You get on the plane, you're thinking of the metal coffin, your nose is congested, you're overheated. A perfect storm. I remember staring at the final chapters of "Harry Potter II"--not a great book--and realizing I had lost all interest in the story. I was so frustrated with J.K. Rowling and her bland sentences. I couldn't track all the references to water and mirrors. Moaning Myrtle--who was she? And Tom Riddle--so, so much backstory about Tom Riddle.
If I could not maintain an interest in Harry Potter, I thought, I could no longer maintain an interest in the world. Printed words were a main thing tethering me to existence. It was as if all tastes had suddenly disappeared; the world had become ash.
I knew I could not inhabit my skin for the next two or three hours. The people next to me were friendly--they saw the panic in my eyes--and they offered to switch seats so I could have the aisle. This wasn't good enough. I could not remain seated. I made a sudden lunge for the bathroom--not sure what would have happened there--and the officious gay steward on the intercom became enraged, as if I were brandishing a bomb. I hope that man rots in hell.
I returned to my seat and seemed to enter a fugue state for several minutes. Just total inner chaos, like a sensation of endless falling. Then--just as suddenly as it had arrived--the attack had passed.
And here's what I've learned since. A panic attack always passes. In the span of twenty or thirty minutes. Also, a clear nose is your ally. And light, loose clothing. And deep breaths.
Curiously, none of these steps makes the attack go away instantaneously. Even knowing that the attack is transient doesn't help all that much. It's hard to *know* much of anything when you're in the midst of the attack.
But: Such is life. I will always remember my Harry Potter adventure. I'm told it's good to have Sudoku on hand--at all times--if you're the nervous type.
P.S. Klonopin--even just as a symbolic token--is also not a bad idea.
P.P.S. Though I don't always love Ariana Grande's work, I love "Breathing." Ms. Grande was in the studio, having a panic attack--which is maybe common, after Manchester--and she was told to keep breathing. This became a song. I'm sure you can find bits of figurative resonance--but, on another level, Ms. Grande is just literally commanding herself to inhale. I find this moving.
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