Don't let panic ruin your life

By Dana Stevenson

My name's Dana Stevenson and I'm a 52-year-old writer, husband and father of two. For the past 30 years I've struggled off and on with general anxiety disorder. I'm not a doctor; never even played one on TV, but I know a little bit about what you're going through and perhaps I can help.

If you're reading this I assume you have a problem with anxiety, panic, depression, OCD or a number of other mental health symptoms. There, I said it. "Mental Health." Must mean you're crazy, right? Who else goes to a mental health clinic, counselor or psychiatrist than crazy people? That's what I used to believe.

When I was 22 years old I met the first love of my life. She was absolutely stunning with a great body and a better personality. She laughed at my jokes and was great in bed. She had a little boy from a previous marriage, but I liked the little guy and we had a great time for a few months.

We were to be married on Christmas Day and life was wonderful. I was walking on clouds and using moonbeams for flashlights. Not a care in the world, had I, or at least so I thought.

I guess it was a couple of months before the wedding when she told me she no longer loved me and wanted to see other people. We fought like cats and dogs (I still have the scars on my arm to prove it). Then one day I went home, and she was gone.

It didn't hit me all at once. At first I was sad and cried, then I picked up a little and was just in kind of a general malaise. And then it hit me. I was at work one day when I physically felt something pop in my head. Panic swarmed over me and I ran outside. I couldn't breathe and I didn't know why.

I went to the family doctor, who said those two little words that would change my life forever. "Mental Health." She suggested I go to the mental health clinic and they could better help me. Panic washed over me again. Had I gone crazy? Why else would I go to a mental health clinic?

Of course the appointment wasn't for two weeks, so I had that time to stew and conjure up horrors in my head. The electric shock treatment from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was still vividly in my brain. I was terrified that they would stick that rubber pacifier down my gullet and send me convulsing on the table like Jack Nicholson.

The reality, of course, was somewhat different. While I was sure I was the only one feeling like this, the intake workers had seen it all before. "Seems like things aren't real? That's pretty common." "You feel like you're slightly out of your own body. Yeah, a lot of people get that."

So I went to group therapy and built things out of popsicle sticks and played ping pong for a few months and I got better. I still wasn't sure what had happened to me, but I got better, so I got on with my life.

Fast forward 10 years. I lived in Mississippi with my wife and sons. We took a trip back to Ohio at Christmas to visit my family, where I was shocked to find how ill my father had become. I knew he had been sick, but not this sick. He was talking nonsense and looked horribly drawn. We made the decision at that time to move back home to be with him for however long he had left.

I left the family in Ohio and flew back to Mississippi alone. I had to quit my job and pack our stuff in our pickup to move back. I had just gotten in on a Friday night and was watching Miami Vice, wondering where Don Johnson got those pastel sport coats, when it hit me again.

WHAM.

Again, it felt like something exploded inside of me and the panic released to do its dirty deed all over again. I was filled with emotion as I raced from room to room. I was all alone, no doctors, no mental health specialists, no nothing. I'm sure I didn't sleep at all that night, and in the morning I threw our belongings in the truck, stopped by Walgreens for some over the counter nerve medicine, and hit the highway. But not before I stopped by work and dropped off the key and a note, saying something like, sorry, but gotta go. I still feel bad about that, but I couldn't help it.

The medicine did nothing to cut the fear. Imagine a man, anxiety redlined at 10, driving an old Dodge pickup from Mississippi to Ohio. I'm not recommending this, mainly because it didn't work and it was stupid, but I drank a lot of beers on the road just to get by.

I was sure I wouldn't make it home, but I did and went back to the same Mental Health Clinic. This time they gave me some drugs to help, and they did, and after a couple of years, I was pretty much back to normal.

Fast forward another 20 years. I'd had some trouble with anxiety off and on, but was functioning pretty well. My wife and I decided to move to California. I went over alone to secure a job and a homestead, and once again, the panic struck.

My younger son, who is deaf, had gotten in a little trouble at school because he had left a box cutter from work in his backpack. They had mentioned calling the police, but they didn't so the matter was essentially closed with a one-day suspension. That night as I lie in bed, the thoughts started coming. What if they put him in jail? He wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone. He would be terrified. I pictured him crying in a jail cell, huddled in a corner trying to stay away from the hoodlums. Over and over the pictures raced through my mind until...

WHAM

Wave after wave of panic raced up my spine. It felt like my vertebrae were on fire. I became nauseous and vomited repeatedly. It was late at night, but I went down to my truck in a very high state of anxiety because I thought I might have some Lorazepam (nerve pills) in there. I ripped the cab apart by flashlight until I found a very old bottle. It said take no more than one a day. I devoured three and waited for the relief to come.

It didn't come. I spent another sleepless night and most of the next two years trying to find some peace. Thoughts raced through my mind including:

"What if I took a knife and killed everyone in here?" "How am I able to find my way around?" "What if I had a blowtorch and set people on fire?" "How do I know I didn't murder anyone last night?" "What if things aren't real?" (Although some thoughts change between episodes, that's always been a dependable stand-by). "Am I going crazy?"

Am I going crazy? That's the one I always really worried about. I knew the others were just stupid, planted in there by some subconscious troll who didn't like my childhood. I had some reason to believe I might go crazy. My great grandmother was described as "crazy" by my mother after she had gone at my grandmother with a knife. Then there was the religious zealot uncle (who was a very nice man) who did walkabouts away from home, then cut off his right hand because he felt he had sinned with it. Oh, yeah, I had some ammunition to think I might be going crazy.

Point being I didn't go crazy. Through behavioral changes and medicine, I got better, and I continue to be better. As a 22-year-old I was terrified with my first series of attacks because I had no idea what was going on. As I got older and they happened again, they weren't any more fun, but at least there was that glimmer of hope in the back of my mind that I had gotten through them before and I would get through them again.

Sorry to bore you with this long diatribe, but very often people who are going through mental duress feel they are alone; like they are the only ones this has happened to.

I assure you that you are not alone and urge you to seek medical and psychological help if you haven't done so already. If that's not your cup of tea, I have one of the top programs on the web linked here with a brief description and a review. If one doesn't work for you, try another until you find one that does.

Life is a wonderful gift, even in the worst of times. Find something to enjoy and hang in there because there are better days ahead.

To learn more about treating anxiety without medication, click here

Dana is a technical writer who has suffered with depression all his life. Although he believes in doctors and medicine, there are other ways to deal with panic and anxiety attacks.

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