Panic Attack

Sometimes a good story, no matter how many people it might help, has to age awhile before the telling. So it is with the following story. The events in this story are true, and a part of my own history. I will share the story in small bloggy bites for the sake of readability. My plan is to follow the story with some solutions that have worked for me.

I sat in the Tell City rocker I had received as a wedding gift so many years before and stared through my children. In my head I knew I loved them, but my heart felt nothing. As the youngest, barely four years old, leaned against me, I instinctively held him in an emotionless embrace. I heard his voice and responded in a nervous whisper, “Mommy can’t help you. Ask someone else.” I could not process the answers to his questions, so I rocked and stared in hollow desperation. I hoped that the rhythmic motion would untwist my knotted intestines.

My seven year-old daughter pursed her lips and peered through large brown eyes veiled by heavy lashes. She ventured a little closer to my self-made prison and extended her arm through the unseen bars that held me captive. She laid her hand on mine. “I love you, Mom,” she said while searching my face. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, honey, I—I don’t know,” I stammered and flew to the bathroom. Not again! My stomach cramped. How can I possibly have anything left in there? Every stimulus wrenches my gut.

When I finally emerged, my husband’s eyes met mine with a look of confused gentleness. He said, “You need to eat,” and held a sandwich under my nose.

“I can’t” I whined. “I can’t swallow.”

“You have to eat—just a little.”

I took a bite because he’s bigger than I am. I chewed, but my salivary glands produced nothing. Cardboard would have been as easy to swallow. I forced down several more bites, artificially lubricating my tongue with frequent drinks.