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For quite awhile, I've been thinking about writing up my experiences last year with the panic disorder that seemed to come out of nowhere to disrupt my life. It lasted for months, until I at last became miserable and hopeless enough to admit that it wasn't something that I could control or that would go away on its own. Finally, after months of misery---for me and my husband---I finally allowed myself to be put on medication to control my anxiety and magically, it went away.
Though life goes on being uncertain (as adult life is) and riddled with pitfalls and the potential for disappointment and unhappiness (as all life is), I now feel that I can cope with the troughs and enjoy the crests. I no longer yearn for mere stability and I'm able to enjoy a certain amount of uncertainty. The thought of having to deal with change doesn't overwhelm me as it used to----and that, for me, was the basis for my panic attacks.
My problem was (probably) caused by my sudden withdrawal from the estrogen therapy I'd been on for the years following a complete hysterectomy. But there can be other causes. And---I've noticed just from observing my friends---the disorder tends to creep up on you.
The people I've known who have suffered were all people who had coped with loss, illness, or bereavement really well, according to observers. One of them, a man, had accepted with initial fury and then silent indifference the marriage of a woman he'd dumped and was no longer in love with but still relied on; the panic attacks started half a year later when he decided to quit his job and make other major life changes. Another, a woman, had stoically endured treatment for cancer without telling anyone and had spent the two years that followed mediating between other family members who relied on her for her patience, kindness, and support. Another was a remarkable young man who had been in a relationship with the same woman since high school; when she decided to end their life together, she ended the only life he'd known since adulthood. And so on. The one thing they had in common with each other and with me was that after long months and years of endurance the attacks seemed to come out of nowhere.
What brought it on? Suppressed rage? Unacknowledged grief? Who knows? And really, who cares? If panic is just the symptom and not the disease, it's the part that hurts the most.
It took me a long time to admit that I had a problem that was different from the problem that I was used to coping with (epilepsy) and that I had long ago publicly acknowledged. I wanted the symptoms of panic disorder to be epilepsy because everyone already knew about that----a fact I already found sufficiently humiliating----and I didn't feel I could cope with having yet another disabling problem.
In the end, the solution for me was simple: [1] Admit I couldn't cope; and [2] Take medication. The fact is, the transformation from panic to nonpanic felt like a magical transformation. But first I had to admit that I had a problem that was different from my previous problem and that I couldn't cope with it.
I wrote this note so other people who are going through panic attacks (or any other form of anxiety disorder) will be assured that what they are going through is normal (for people with anxiety disorders, anyway) and that it is, or is becoming, fairly common. In my immediate circle are many solid citizens who have silently endured months of misery because they saw their problem as a sign of some sort of character defect.
For anyone in the same boat, it really does take finding out that waking up in the morning in a cold sweat feeling as if you are going to die of fear isn't a unique experience or a sign of incipient psychosis before they are usually willing to seek help. Or at least that's my experience.
So I wrote about my experiences here, in my anxiety blog. If you know what I'm talking about, please check it out.
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