How It All Went Down

Today was the day. The day I've been dreading all week. It came. I didn't go to bed Saturday night and magically wake up Monday morning. Bummer.

I took an Ambien last night at 11:30. Laid down around midnight. Pedro read Count of Monte Cristo to me to help me fall asleep, took less than a minute I think. I was tossing and turning before 6am, and fully awake by 6:30.

I went into mute mode, where I'll listen but won't respond verbally. Pedro kept trying to talk to me and all I could do was nod or shake my head. I made myself busy by helping the kids get ready and when I couldn't stall anymore I started getting myself ready.

I was straightening my hair when the panic attack hit. I could feel it coming on--tightness in chest, stomach ache, and then my breathing began to go. I started pounding on the bathroom walls, the door, the counter whatever I could reach. By the time Pedro found me I was crouched down on the floor sobbing and hyperventilating. Pedro must be some kind of miracle worker because he got me breathing again pretty fast. It only took a few minutes to pull myself together.

For some dumb reason I continued to get ready for church instead of crawling back into bed and vowing to never leave.

At quarter to nine we left for church. I was gripping my left hand with my right--squeezing and twisting it. Pedro offered me his hand but I told him no--he recently hurt it in a basketball game and it was swollen and bruised. I told him I didn't want to hurt him. I think he appreciated that.

I could feel my breathing starting to slip during the 3 minute drive to the church so I practiced my breathing techniques---5 counts in, hold for 2, 5 counts out, hold for 2.

We got to church, we unloaded the kids and walked toward this building that has become a visual representation of my fear. I walked up the steps, walked through the double set of doors and took a few steps towards the chapel. And then I looked up. I saw people. My breathing was gone, I was in pain. I turned and went right back out the doors. I leaned against some rails and everything I'd been holding in came bursting out. Uncontrollable sobbing and hyperventilating. Pedro was right there, holding me up and telling me to breathe. I just kept falling apart. I was aware of a family walking up to the church. I have no idea who they were and that bugs me--I don't like when people see me like that--I don't mind talking about it, but being seen--that's no good.

I'm not sure how long it took to pull myself together but eventually I got my breathing under control and Pedro took me to the van. He offered to drive me home, but I said no--he was going to be late--he had to talk too. So I stayed in the car. He wouldn't give me the keys. I have an insane urge when I'm panicking for alcohol. I've never had a drink in my life, but when I'm falling apart I really want something strong. My mom told me this week that alcoholism runs in the family. Great. So I was confined to the car. I did make it in to the church a while later. I found an empty classroom and sat in there playing Temple Run so I could at least hear Petey give his talk--being supportive in my own little way. After he spoke I went back to the car. Pedro came out and found me when he was all done.

I married a great guy. He brought me home. He had put together an "emergency kit" of all my favorite chocolate candies. He asked me what I needed. I told him I needed to get out. So we walked around the neighborhood a few times and then pulled out the moped and went cruising around town. I should ditch church more often. By the time he left to go pick up the kids I was feeling almost normal again.

I'm not back to normal yet. The doorbell just rang and I ran into another room because I don't want to see people right now. I'm in hermit mode. I'm not sure how long this phase will last. Guess we'll wait and see.

If nothing else, I didn't die. Three panic attacks in three days and I didn't die.