PANIC - PT. 5

So, after my initial Adventures In Ruthless Panic,  I knew with utter certainty  it was imperative that I get some kind of professional help.  Everything about me – the person who I’d always thought myself to be – had changed.  I would have downright welcomed feeling like a shadow of my former self.   Instead, I felt like a shell, pod-person.  And THAT couldn’t be good.

Doctor D. is the first shrink I call.  He is fairly local and also accepts my insurance.  He tells me that a slot for the following day has just opened up.  I make the appointment straight away.  The next 24 hours feels like an eternity, I am that desperate.  As I drive to my very first psychotherapy appointment, my sense of purpose and determination thankfully over-ride any catastrophic anxiety.   But I also feel deadened and disconnected from the rest of the human race and the world in general. 

While I haven’t actually suffered another attack after my unsuccessful attempt to drive to work, I am acutely aware that my world has changed.   As I said earlier, there was now this omnipresent fear of having another attack clobber me at any time.  I no longer trust my body or my mind.  Both now seemed so capable of betraying me.  As far as my spirit is concerned, it has been dimmed and trampled. 

After filling out the requisite forms at the reception desk, it is a very short wait before Doctor D. appears.  Pleasant-looking man.  Perhaps 50 years old, full head of tousled, graying hair and a matching moustache.  Average height.  Casual dresser, khakis and a light sweater.  Honest eyes.  Could be anyone’s uncle.  Probably is somebody’s uncle.

With a polite smile, he shakes my hand and motions me into his little cave of a shrink-room.   Dark green carpeting.  A small lamp and a box of tissues on a little table.   I have the choice of using either a couch or a chair.  I choose the chair.  Doctor D. is serenely perusing my file.  Immobile, I feel frozen.  But for the first time in days, I also feel something else.  In this small, dimly-lit room, sitting across from this courteous yet unfamiliar man, I feel safe.

Then, he looks up and is regarding me openly.  Not objectionably.  He just has this frank way of looking me right in the face.   Seems to be evaluating me somehow, although it doesn’t seem like I’m giving him too much to go on.  I’m waiting for him to speak first and after a few moments, he does.

Doc D.: “So.  You’ve been having panic attacks.”

This is all it takes.  My face collapses in on itself.  I can’t remember ever crying like this.  It’s like I’m mourning the loss of a dearest of loved ones.  And actually, I suppose that I am:  I’m mourning for my own life.  I’m mourning for how it’s gotten away from me to such an extent that it has brought me here.  To Doctor D.

The crying continues for quite awhile.  Doctor D. pushes the box of tissues across the little table to me.  Endless water-works.  I’m not screaming or wailing or anything.  These are peculiar, quietly violent tears.  For most of that first meeting, I pretty much just sit there, my face in my hands, crying myself sick.  (But later I’ll realize that what I’m really doing is crying myself WELL.) 

Doctor D. remains quiet and courteous throughout.   When I dare to glance up at him thru my emotional outpouring, his expression is humane and compassionate, and not in the least bit perturbed.  This fills me with relief and a profound sense of comfort and it also brings my tears to a halt.   Now it’s my turn to say something.

Me:  “I’m afraid that I’m losing my mind.”

Doc D.: “Because of the panic attacks?”

Me: “Uh, well… yeah.”

Doc D. “You’re not losing your mind, Lynn.  I can just look at you and know you’re not losing your mind.  I know when people are losing their mind, so don’t you worry about that.”

His accent is old-school QUEENS and again, I feel my jangled nerves soothe. 

Me: “I just want these attacks to stop.”

Doc D.: “Sure, that’s why you’re here.  We’re gonna work on that.  We have to find out why you’ve started having them.”

Me: “I REALLY don’t want to take medications.  I don’t want to be a Prozac-babe or any of that shit…”

Doc D: (with a little laugh): “No, I don’t see you as a Prozac-babe, either.”

Me: “You don’t?”  (More relief. This has truly been a concern of mine from the get-go.)

Doc D.: “No.”

Me: “What do you see me as?”

Doc D.: “Oh, I see you more as a WE’LL FIGURE THIS THING OUT  babe.”  He looks at his watch. “Okay!  So, this went well.  See you next Tuesday, same time?”

Me: “We’re done?”

Doc D.: “For today we are.”  He stands up, and I follow suit, slightly dazed. 

Doc D. motions me to the door.  “Don’t worry.  You’re gonna be fine.”

Hmmmmm…..