I open the bottle of Ativan, the drug I’ve been prescribed for my anxiety, and see five pills left. Five “in case of emergency” fail-safes. You’re shaking, Brooke. Your heart is racing faster than you can track. This IS an emergency. Just a few short minutes ago, I vented to my husband about the stress I’m currently under. He heard me out, looking at me with eyes that scream “I wish I knew how to help.” He let me vent...and vent...and vent until I just shrunk into his chest, arms lifeless at my side. “Take your pill and head to bed. You know it will help.” There’s no way I’ll ever sleep tonight if I don’t take one. Here goes. Four small pills. Four more times for me to lose my grip before I either admit to my counselor I need regular medication or until I try to get by without having the security blanket of a back up plan in case of another full-blown panic attack.
It feels like a lifetime ago but it was only months ago. Waking in the middle of a deep sleep, feeling like I can’t breathe. Thinking it’s just me getting sick and needing to throw up. Stumbling to the bathroom, trying to let it happen, but nothing happens except for gasping to breathe. It clicks in my mind that I’m not getting sick. I fall to the floor and crawl to the bathroom door connecting to our master bath. Trying to yell for Josh. Hearing not a scream but barely a whisper. This is how I die. He’s such a deep sleeper. He’s going to wake up and find me dead on our bedroom floor. I try to yell again. Still just a whisper. Gasping for breath. I try hitting the door frame with my fist, but I can’t seem to get the force behind my hand. Why isn’t the dog waking up - aren’t they supposed to have a sixth sense for this stuff? I’m crying, but it’s a silent cry. Tears are streaming down my face as I am on my hands and knees near the foot of the bed. My gasping slows and it’s getting easier to breathe. I still have a tightness in my chest that’s unsettling. I pull myself up to where Josh is on the bed and shake his arm. Still crying, my breathing is getting more steady. Josh wakes up, concerned. I’m shaking as I tell him what happened. At that time, I didn’t have a phrase for the experience - panic attack. I just knew I thought I was dying and I couldn’t breathe. I was terrified to fall back asleep, afraid I wouldn’t wake up. The weeks that followed saw me in the psychiatric emergency department, setting up meetings with a counselor, and having a “security blanket” prescribed for the worst of the panic attacks.
These moments are fewer than they used to be, but they are so scary to endure. It’s hard for me to fully explain to you just how out of control and helpless you feel. If you have experienced a panic attack, my heart goes out to you. I see you. I see your struggle and I pray that you -at a minimum - have a support system in place to help you through those terrifying moments. For now, emotional support from my loved ones is not enough. For now, I’ll reserve my medication for the worst of the attacks and pray that that’s enough.