Why do you stay in prison/when the door is so wide open?/Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.

-Rumi, 13th century Persian Poet and Mystic

Here’s the honest truth: I’ve not been able to face this blog for a few months. At first it was a matter of time (in fact, a lack of time). I was careening along through the summer, feeling fantastic, talking about my disorder like it was something I’d overcome and embraced. I believed this lie for a while, and perhaps wrapped my arms too tightly around my fear. “Step in!” I declared to it, oblivious and arrogant in my grand gestures. “Meet my friends and family, dazzle my co-workers,and introduce me to other sufferers.” And the more I spoke about Panic, desperate to be a small icon of a large disorder, the more I was reminded of how it feels.

A person with Panic Disorder is their own jail cell, and team of wardens; a chemist and their poison. A defeated desperado, I was so shaken by my string of panic attacks on the city sidewalks that I began to rebuild my prison, brick by brick. At first, it was a single street - simple to avoid, and then a batch of streets. With sidewalks being potentially harmful, it meant that going out of my way to meet friends for dinner was out of the question. Restaurants became tainted, as well as larger stores.

During the construction of my penitentiary, I became a bride-to-be, one of the most exhilarating and frightening moments of my entire life. I became fixated on my shortcomings instead of immersing myself in the joy, fearing how I’d fare in the future. Would I be able to walk down the aisle without having a panic attack? Would I pass this genetic flaw to my children? And after years of my rigidity and unyielding support, would my husband finally give up on me? Could I function as an adult while running my cup along the metal bars of my empty cell?

I will not lie to you, and tell you that I’m at my best right now. Life with Panic is a series of hills and plains, and I am currently at the bottom of a mountain, making all attempts to hike back up to the summit. The view is spectacular from up there, and I am angry at the bare walls around me.

To those I’ve avoided, affected, neglected, or mistreated in the past few months, I am so sorry. I am back in weekly therapy, and on an increased dose of medication. I have had a wonderful experience with acupuncture, and spent a day last weekend walking around my city, breathing and seeing clearly for the first time in months.

It will be a lengthy process, but I am ready to begin again.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
There was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

-Billy Collins, from “On Turning Ten”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my disorder, it’s that sometimes I need to physically retrace my steps after an attack. It’s like rising from the mud, and throwing your leg back over a nutmeg stallion, risking being flung once again. True, both horses and anxiety have minds of their own, but with the former there are reins, a bit. Of the two bodies involved, you have the most control. Anxiety, on the other hand, is a battle of wits between you and yourself; your logical mind and your nervous mind.

Behavioral/exposure therapy taught me that revisiting the scene of a panic attack is harrowing, but necessary to re-establish new, gentle roots with the location. Walking down the street sounds simple to begin with, right? How about walking down a street where you last felt ill? It’s like revisiting the scene of a crime, leering back at the chalk outline of a victim - as if their spirit still lingers in the air above, and their blood still seeps from the sidewalk. Such is the case with Panic Disorder: the moment, still vivid and thick in mid-August. Haunting.

Last week I decided to take a risk, march back down the street of my most recent panic attack, with hopes of germinating new seeds. It was late afternoon, and I smiled as I took strides past the ivy-clad townhouse and the ominous onyx school building, reaching Second Avenue successfully, and continuing to First. No sweat, I thought to myself as I paced towards my building.

But this Friday evening, two weeks after the actual incident, I was inundated with ramblings from my worrying mind. What if? What if? Perhaps it’s the time of day, the color of the sky, the unnerving middle ground between day and night, I thought. As I approached the crime scene, I began gasping for breath, as I knew I would, as I had done as well (but only momentarily) earlier in the week. Four townhouses down, I was beginning to lose touch with my surroundings, and felt myself slipping into fuzzy dream-mode.

I called them in a panic - he took the phone, and talked me through my walk, as he often did when I was younger. I kept him updated as to how far I’d traveled, when the lights were turning red, and back to green again. He listened, responded. I changed the pathway home a bit, walking down a busier street to shake things up, and remind myself that I could handle weaving in and out of the crowds and traffic. The visual and auditory stimulation was less violent than last time.

Arriving home, I trudged upstairs - disappointed in myself for trampling over the seeds I had sown.

I know I need to redevelop a relationship with a street and path I’ve always walked - that it’s crucial that I keep on rising, clapping the dirt from my hands, and hoisting myself upwards once again. I will continue to try.

 Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

-William Butler Yeats, from “The Second Coming”

I had a panic attack last night as I dragged my feet two avenues and one city block through a familiar area of New York. It snuck up on me, snatching me away from the reality of the city at dusk. I heard things differently - when I spoke, my voice sounded as if it was miles away, but when my phone rang, or when a car’s alarm began to throb, the noise was acute and violent, as if it pounded only in my head, and existed only to hurt me. The backdrop of Murray Hill became hazy and difficult to process, although passers-by looked bright and sharp. An intense aversion to these sights and sounds accompanied the otherwise ordinary behavior of the cars and people around me.

The only thing I can think to compare it to is a terrifying waking-dream. While reality is something we must carry, dreams flood through our bodies, and move us along to a destination. In the thick of a true panic attack, reality is at odds with the feeling of being surreal. How can I continue walking down this street, I wondered, past the chalk writing on the concrete sidewalk, around the woman on her cell phone, beyond the noise of an ambulance, if I feel as if I’m not in my body?

It was not as if I didn’t know who I was or where I was headed - I felt the side of his shirt balled up in my sweaty fist. But when I blinked my eyes, everything was either out of focus or brightly hyper-focused, and voices were cottony and dangerous.

We barely made it home. Through the fog, I noted how difficult it was to process the complex pattern of our lobby’s carpeting, and avoided looking at the messy coat of a small, brown dog. The feelings slowly subsided, and were followed by shaky hands, and weak movements. I slept for nearly 12 hours, and feel a bit better today.

It’s like the man in the circus who spins red plates on wooden dowels. He lines them up with great skill, and gives them a swirl. One by one, the plates begin to move, suspended in the air by the rigidity of the poles. He runs from one to the next, pushing them, keeping them looping in the air. Feeling bold, he adds one more plate to the line, wiggles it, focuses on its movement, for a moment forgetting the other components of his act. The first plate slows, and falls to the ground. Such is excess anxiety to a panic sufferer; the collapse is a panic attack. 

If you spend all your time racing ahead to the future, you’re liable to discover you’ve left a great present behind.
-Tom Wilson

It’s only Friday, but my mind is already hours ahead of my body, digesting the idea of going to the races tomorrow, inducing a mild state of Panic: my hands are clammy, I’m fidgeting, and it feels as if there’s cotton behind my eyes. It’s like an involuntary sneeze; just like clockwork.

My mental preparation has already begun. I know there will be horse enthusiasts and throngs of spectators; children with Hambletonian backpacks chasing echoes through pavilions. I can picture the ponies and their minute riders, colorfully suited, and poised for victory. Anticipation and chaos will saturate both the air and white linen tablecloths of the restaurant overlooking the swept dirt track. We will have seats at the window, place bets on elaborately named “Jan’s Gettin’ Lucky Today” and “Singmeawindsong,” and lose. 

He has helped me calculate the steps from the car to the ticket window, the escalator to the restaurant, and down to the winner’s circle. He sends me to website photos, and describes what isn’t shown on the screen. His childhood friend is the announcer, and the racetrack will be ours to explore - an immeasurable punishment when taken with fear, and a grand honor in the course of days. I shift in my chair. 

A therapist once asked, ”Is it worth the risk?” I haven’t decided yet.

Circle, circle, circle. I guess you could say I’ve been dizzy ever since.

-Ken Schrader

The room wasn’t spinning - I was bobbing, like a toy boat in a rocky bathtub; water agitated. It felt as if someone was shoving my shoulders, lifting my torso upwards, and then pushing my body downwards. If possible, my head was a helium balloon slipped from the hands of a child, resting awkwardly askew at the ceiling.

The week became a challenge of woman vs. mental gravity, and I found myself tracing walls and rickety blue bathroom stalls in an attempt to touch the physical attributes of being grounded to my surroundings. I was not untethered from the world around me, regardless of whether or not I was unintentionally swaying.

They suggested it was the press of heat. I drank water and stayed indoors. Perhaps it was the inordinate number of unnecessary stressors. I voiced my opinions, and stood tall. Maybe it was due to my diet. I ate healthy proteins. But my head was still full of helium, and the young child was desperately trying to tug at my string from below.

And so I wove my way through construction and conversation on Friday, in search of an Irish pub lunch and select photographs, in heels and helium. We were a large party, and were sat in the middle of the large, open space; our words drastically competing with the swarm of laughter and jumble of letters from the surrounding tables. I swear I clung to my chair with my fingertips as we waited for our food, gently reminding myself that I could always walk to the bathroom to regroup.

By Sunday morning, I’d had enough. I remembered a narrow hallway during the fall of freshman year, and a humorous conversation with a friend about the curse of having curvaceous thighs. She told me that she appreciated her flesh, because it reminded her that she existed, and that every time she moved, she was present “in the moment.” And with every step I took, I thought “I am on the ground. I am tethered. I feel my shoes beneath my feet, and I feel the soft sand below.”

It was as if a mother plucked my balloon from the air, and pulled it back down to the waiting hands of a child.

Wait and let Time go by/till my change come.

-Thomas Hardy, from “Waiting Both”

The day is fading, and I am glued to the corner of Third Avenue waiting for a friend. She is uncharacteristically late, and I am afraid that I’ve sent her on a circuitous route to dinner, but I stand firmly, head turned uptown, diligently scanning the crowd for her face. Behind me is a metallic sign posting the restaurant’s current offerings, and I grasp it with one hand as I search; a small support in the perpetual movement of children, dogs, and scattered bodies marching in the dusk.

The longer my eyes skim over the wave of unfamiliar faces, the harder it becomes to focus on anyone. People look sharp, voices on cell phones begin to sound distant, and the relentless heat seeps down my shirt. I attempt to blink through the haze, feeling the pole behind me, reminding myself that I am standing on a very familiar corner, secured to the ground through my grip on the sign. Minutes are passing.

There’s something about waiting that I find troubling. Long lines are more painful than standing-by-circumstance, but they’re both imbued with the sense of being trapped, and should an attack find its way to my body, I fear I’ll be forced to fend off my demons in front of a watchful crowd. In this way, the waiting and the feelings have become intertwined — which came first, the panic or the waiting? Do I fear waiting due to past effects of the disorder, or does the disorder affect my perception of waiting? A child’s innocent question, and no simple answer.

My friend arrives, and within minutes we are inside the restaurant sipping at mango margaritas. The conversation from the bar blends with the blaring music, but I almost don’t mind the thick noise - I am sitting with my back against a wall, finally sheathed from the flow of the Avenue.

 They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself

 - Andy Warhol

I am eyeing my watch again, moving the band away from my sticky skin to be sure I am correct. It’s 8:22 PM. The train down by the river will be departing at 8:43, whether or not we’re on board the cool air-conditioned car; regardless of whether we’re madly running in our sandals towards the shut of metallic doors. 8:23. I am shifting anxiously in my seat by the blue pool and summer dinner crowd. It’s at least a 20 minute drive to the station, and it’s time to leave, because if we don’t go now, it’ll be another hour until the next train pulls into the station, 60 minutes darker, and 3600 seconds later in the evening. We’ll have to transfer trains halfway through our southward journey - adjust to the darkness of the platform, and then readjust again to the sharp light of our new car. Grand Central will seem to loom over us - a young boy grown too tall for his pant legs - and the tourists and travellers will look misplaced and thin. I could feel thin.

She sees me glance downward again, unaware of what is motivating me to move, and equally aware that there is a train to catch, but also assuming that there is always one more to follow. 8:24. She finally volunteers to drive us to the river, and we hustle to scrape our belongings together in the humidity. He is rushing because I am rushing - a sign of support.

The Lincoln is cool, and the sweat on my neck slowly dissipates. If she makes that turn swiftly, I think, we will make the train on time. They make small talk in the front of the car, and I watch for traffic from the rear. Every yellow light becomes a threat, and a blessing as we sail through between the changing colors. As we pull up to the station, I glance down at my watch once more - 8:40. Young men and children mull around the platform; a woman in a straw hat rolls a suitcase. They are waiting. We are on time.

As I feel my body begin to loosen a bit, I remember that I will still have to ride the train, and that dusk is deepening. I will focus on the lights on the other side of the river, I think to myself, and stay near the window panel, right arm on my cheek. It could be worse, I continue thinking. It could be an hour later.

I’m reaching for the pull switch above me, and tugging the cord, however I can already see in the darkness. I’m turning on the light for you: family, friends, in-lookers, and empathizers. Things are not entirely as they seem on the surface, and sometimes it helps to illuminate shadows.

A single summer evening in 1997 has become my personal focal point for nearly a decade of fear. In a tightly-packed souvenir shop in Canada, bombarded by glaring halogen lights, music, and tourists, I was accosted by a street performer and his wooden marionette. Surprised and unable to focus on the French Canadian he spoke, I was sent into a tailspin of bodily symptoms: sweaty palms, pounding heart, and the feeling as if I was no longer in my body. I was having a massive panic attack – the first of many – and I was absolutely terrified.

A panic attack is not what popular culture has painted it to be. While shopping the other day, I overheard a young woman exclaim, “ohmygawd, I will just have a panic attack if they don’t carry these pants in my size!” It took nearly all of my strength not to intrude in her conversation and forcefully correct her — if only panic attacks were insignificant moments of drama-queen proportions. But then again, I wouldn’t be here today setting the record straight.

According to the Anxiety Disorders Association of America (ADAA), the following symptoms constitute a true panic attack:

It’s a strange game of genetic chance we play. Approximately one in twelve individuals will experience at least a single attack in their lifetime. The random discomfort will eventually subside — a subtle, hidden luxury for a fortunate few. Spin the dial a second time — as of 2006, upwards of six million Americans have experienced more than one panic attack. The rush of fear returns, sometimes firmly attached to a location, event, or emotional state. Multiple attacks lead to avoidance of the negative stimuli, driving masses of people to stay in their homes, shrink away from subways and bridges, and cry out in distress in large auditoriums. If you have more than a single panic attack in a month, and spend an equal amount of time worrying about having another attack, you have panic disorder.

I have had panic disorder for nearly 10 years now. It has been my nemesis, spitefully waving its spindly fingers at me from across dinner tables, casting shadows over evening conversations, and blowing its hot breath on my cheek as dusk falls. Life with panic disorder can be a whirlwind of fear and discomfort. Imagine something that terrifies you - is it snakes? Verbal confrontations? Now envision spending every day standing in a swimming pool of snakes, or facing perpetual confrontations, never being quite sure when you might be able to step out or walk away. You are tethered to and dependent upon negative possibility. That is just a small sip of what it’s like to live with this disorder.

What scares me personally? The night, and functioning normally when I am tired, it is dark, and I must cope with loud noise and bright lights. If you know me well, you might realize that you’ve spent very little time with me in the evenings, or perhaps only small amounts of controlled time. Through years of therapy, I have learned that I am sensitive to both auditory and visual stimuli, and that perhaps it is my predisposition to this sensitivity that triggers most attacks.

I am sharing this with you because I have recently reached a point where I refuse to continue denying my personal psychological history because it may be perceived as an embarassment. There is no shame in uncontrollable factors — would you deny being Diabetic? Mock your cousin afflicted with Parkinson’s Disease? — and embracing fear is the best way to cope.

I hope to use this blog as a forum for discussion - to provide a sounding board for other sufferers and their families, and through stories from my daily life, to educate those unfamiliar with this anxiety disorder. Please feel free to contact me with any questions about living with the disorder (info@rachel-schneider.com), and post your own comparative stories.  It’s time for us to gather and build a community through exposure and explanation.

Tell your best friend, your neighbor, a passer-by on the street, the quiet man that sits in the corner of your office. Send people the web address, subscribe to my blog (it’s free!), post your experiences, and help me spread the word about Panic Disorder.