From the dark side

an insider's view of a panic attack

I could write a book about everything I’ve been through in the last five and a half years —oh, wait . . .

Hours after my most recent panic was over, I asked Ben, “What does it look like from the outside? What do people watching me panic actually see?”

And then I thought maybe those of you who’ve never had one might wonder what it feels like from the inside, so I’ll do my best to describe it for you.

Less than two weeks after I was hit head-on in 2018, I had my first-ever panic attack. I’d never had one before, so it was all new to me. At the time I didn’t have a name for it or know what was happening to me, but it was quite scary. I’ve talked about it before, my face-to-face meeting with my favorite cow Iris and how I reacted in such a freakishly not-me way, then wound up huddled in my bathtub with the shower doors closed, fully clothed, shaking and crying and wondering what on earth just happened.

I’ve had other panic attacks since then after various “triggers” that were as unexpected as Iris’s sweet face. This has maybe been the hardest part of dealing with the aftereffects of trauma: the feeling of helplessness when panic takes over my body and mind, and not knowing when it’s going to happen. It is the one thing above all others that has made me ask repeatedly, “What is wrong with me?”

Two weeks ago we went to Florida for a week of beach time and Mets spring training baseball. Our first flight on the way down was from Richmond to Charlotte. It’s only an hour-and-twenty-minute flight, but being a Saturday, it was full. The gate agent warned us in the terminal that the ride would be “a little bumpy” and that we would not be allowed to get out of our seats to use the restroom, so we should do it now before boarding. Then once we were on the plane, the captain reiterated this and said he was going to have the flight attendants remain in their seats with seat belts fastened, so there wouldn’t be any drinks or snacks served. He repeated that it would be “a little bumpy.” I guess that was supposed to help.

In fact, the warning gave my nervous system a head start getting ramped up. And in my defense, it was more than a little bumpy. It was waiting-for-a-wing-to-fall-off scary. When we were about to touch down in Charlotte, I could feel the roll and yaw of the plane. Then the wheels hit hard and we bounced a few times and I came undone. Even Ben, who spent a career in the Navy flying, said it was an unusually hard hit. That was panic #1.

Then we flew from Charlotte to West Palm Beach, and I don’t know if this new captain turned around and went back through the same storm just for fun, but it wasn’t any better and neither was my nervous system. Crying and shaking and gripping Ben’s arm across the aisle during landing, and that was panic #2. But at least we’d made it to Florida.

By this time I was so dysregulated I could not function well, so Ben drove the hour to where we were staying. Normally being a passenger would be enough reason for its own panic attack, but that night I sat in my seat numb, feeling like I was not in my body but was watching my life on a movie screen in my head. This actually went on for a few days, and Ben did all the driving. It was such a strange feeling, and he probably got sick of me talking about it, but it was almost overwhelming and I could not shake myself out of it.

We had fun having dinner with friends and going to the beach and ballgames, but this strange sensation was always there, every time we got in the car. The one time I drove to dinner—the night before we left to come home—I still had a lot of trouble functioning. By that, I mean I struggled to make decisions (which lane should I be in?) and to understand the directions Siri was giving (this right turn or the next one and why is part of the road bright green and WHERE IS THE EXIT LANE?), and I was so very intimidated by all the traffic. It was not pretty.

The next morning Ben drove us back to West Palm Beach and we got on our return flight to Charlotte. Everything was fine until the captain announced we were about 30 minutes from our destination, the flight attendants would be coming through the cabin to collect trash, etc.

Like someone flipped a switch, the turbulence began, bouncing, rocking back and forth, spinning like the plane was held up by an out-of-control toddler. Immediately I was gasping, having trouble breathing, unable to speak, crying. Ben was across the aisle and I lunged toward him, held in place by the seat belt. I gripped his arm rest and leaned toward him as far as I could while he spoke calmly to me and rubbed my back. Sobbing, trying to choke down gulps of air, I absolutely KNEW we were going down.

Then suddenly it felt like the plane nose-dived and I yelled out for Ben. Could not breathe. Could not stop sobbing and gasping for air. I was shaking violently. I had a death-grip on his armrest and another on the seat in front of me. I’m sure people were watching and I did not even know. I was not aware of anything outside of my own terror.

When I first gasped, the woman next to me instinctively reached her hand over and put it on my leg and said calmly, “It’s okay. Keep breathing.” Throughout the 30 minute descent, every once in a while she would quietly say something. “You’re doing great.” “Keep breathing.” “Almost there.” Then when we were about to touch down, she gave me a quiet warning that the jolt was about to happen: “Here it is. Here it is.”

Then we were on the ground, reverse thrust throwing us all forward like it does and no one ever pays attention to it. Only for me it was like a bow-wave of release. I flopped back against my seat and the sobbing changed from terror to relief that it was over. We were on the ground and we were safe. It took most of the ride to the gate for me to be able to speak. I continued shaking for hours.

My new friend apologized if she had been bothering me and I could not find the words to thank her enough. When I was able to talk, she asked if I’d had panic attacks before and I whispered my story in a few words. She responded with, “You’re not alone.”

I don’t know that woman’s name, but I wish I could thank her a million times in a million ways. Every person who has ever struggled with anything mental-health related needs to hear those words: You are not alone.

Thirty minutes is a long time to be in a state of terror. I was trying to describe it to Ben later, and all I could come up with was that it is like being in the rough ocean when they put the red flags out and you keep trying to get your footing and catch a breath but wave after wave crashes mercilessly over your head and knocks you back down and you are just being thrown around like a soaked ragdoll and can’t tell which way is up. Not only is the fear of being unsafe terrifying, but the panic attack itself is as well.

Just this week I read a verse in Job that describes it:

Terrors take hold on him as waters . . . (Job 27:20)

I totally get that. But here’s the thing: Despite all the kind assurances the woman and Ben gave me, they might as well have been talking to their tray tables. My rational brain was nowhere in sight in those moments. If it were, I could have reasoned my way out of the panic. No one else on the plane was worried, right? Apparently there is no reason to be. But my prefrontal cortex, the part of my brain that makes decisions and thinks logically, was completely offline. Nobody home. Like a computer switch in the O-F-F position. My nervous system’s fear response was in full control.

That’s what happens after you’ve experienced trauma—it is the definition of PTSD. Your brain is hypervigilant to keep you safe, so when any feeling of unsafety pops up, it goes into overdrive, hijacks your body, and shuts down your ability to think. Your body is 100% in reaction mode until it knows the threat has passed. It was not until we were on the ground and my body knew we were safe that my nervous system gradually gave control back to my thinking brain.

Do you feel tension in your body right now after reading this? That’s my life. There is chronic tension in my body all the time because my nervous system is always on alert, looking for danger. The only thing that makes my body relax is when I feel completely, 100% safe.

Since last week, Ben and I have talked about this issue a lot. There is so much to it, much more than I can describe here. But probably the saddest thing I’ve said since we got home is this:

I feel like I’ve failed. I’ve failed therapy.

Therapy was supposed to fix me. It was supposed to make this stop happening. I was supposed to not struggle with this anymore. EMDR was supposed to be the cure and I am getting worse instead of better. I have more panic attacks now than I ever have. My freedom was taken away from me the day I was hit head-on. My life was changed and not for the better. This is hard and I hate it.

These are the thoughts of a trauma survivor. We want “healing” to be a predictable path and we want it on a predictable timeline. There is profound grief for what we’ve lost, for all that’s been taken from us, for all the future things we know we will miss out on. This is the hardest part of trauma. It’s hard to find a silver lining. And maybe it’s okay to look for a silver lining, but, as Emily P. Freeman says in How to Walk into a Room, “it can keep us from grieving what deserves grief. Something is always lost. And it’s important to let lost things be lost.”

I don’t mean to relegate God to the status of a mere silver lining—certainly he is far more than that—but when you live in the shadow of trauma, you simultaneously grieve and search earnestly for glimmers to hold on to.

This week I’ve been clinging to this, written by Hannah Brencher on Instagram:

You may always fight this battle. There might not be the healing you wanted on this side of heaven. But in the darkness, your eyes adjust, and you become a person who can see in the dark. You see others in their suffering.

You spot God, like Waldo, where others may not be able to find him. You keenly know something is working beneath the surface. You are not so sure of everything in life, but you are certain of God’s constant vigil over his people through the night.

And when you have those eyes that see in the dark, you can find the others in the dark—those who are washed up and afraid, those who don’t yet know they will make it to the other side. You get to guide. You get to comfort. You get to hold. You get to stand firm.

I don’t wish for anyone to walk the path of suffering, but I’ve been through the dark . . . and I would do it all over again.

Why?

Because now I have eyes that see in the dark.

I wondered if my friend in the seat next to me was seeing in the dark. I wondered if she understood mercy because she had suffered too. I saw God in the dark that day; he showed up in the calm, quiet voice of a stranger and the faithful presence of my husband.

This is not what I would have chosen for my life. I’m not sure I can say I would do it all over again. I never wanted to walk in the dark, but I know that my Shepherd, like the shepherds in Luke 2, abides in the field, keeping watch over his flock by night.

He is with me in the night. With me in my dark hour. And I am learning, tiny bit by tiny bit, to use my eyes to see in the dark. God is there and we can see him once our eyes adjust.