Well, now, here i̶t̵ ̵c̷o̶m̴e̵s̵. The third act, the third kind of panic attack, the kind that I hate (and let’s be honest, fear) the most. The physically-induced kind that waits, coiled and impatient, right b̷e̸h̵i̸n̸d̶ ̵t̷h̴e̵ ̴w̸a̵l̵l̵ of my sternum to expand and overwhelm me nearly every day for the past few months. And when it does, it’s never a surprise, but it’s always a shock.
I’ve actually tried to quasi-liveblog one of these events at least ̶̼̆s̶̟͊e̴͎̾ṿ̴̉è̵͇ṉ̴͊?̴̩̉ times since they started in February, but something always happened either while I was typing or before I could actually save the text. One time there was a power outage that trashed the post I was composing. Another time I fell asleep over the keyboard and by the time I woke up my laptop had run out of power, wiping out that iteration of the post, too. After that, I worked more carefully, editing a local file, though I could only manage the odd dribs and drabs of text. Then one night, after my laptop decided to update and reboot itself without so much as a by-your-leave, the file was gone. A simple series of technical glitches that sound more significant than they probably are because they’re listed all together. Nothing insurmountable, but it felt like a cycle as inescapable as the panic attacks themselves. Fact as strange as fiction, I suppose.
But I’m writing around the matter; historiography instead of history. Probably because I feel it creeping up on me right now, and I want to deny its progress, the way a child covers her eyes to make the ̷m̵o̷n̸s̸t̸e̷r̵s stay away.
It starts as a feeling that something is...off. Something barely at the threshold of perception, trivially dismissed like a stray thought. Or reflux, because that’s something that happens more often than I’d like, but is infintely preferable to what my subconscious is unwilling to admit is coming. And though denial and rationalization may be the normal, even reflexive human response to this kind of aberration, they’re worse than unhelpful now. I need to notice, or more precisely, to realize I’m noticing these portents, these telltales before I can do something more to halt their progress.
(I’ve consulted multiple specialists, and take high doses of multiple medicines to keep these things at bay, and yet. And yet. And yet I thought the ravages of the near-constant migraines and the progress in managing other persistent conditions meant I should once again try the 3-month-duration injections that we’d put on indefinite hiatus because of their increasingly wretched side effects. And the February injection worked: the migraines receded. But the floodgates to these ̷o̶t̶h̵e̷r̵ effects didn’t just open, they damn well shattered.
I knew it was a possibility, I even knew the mechanism: paradoxical spasms in my esophagus or coronary micro-vessels, or both. Acute anxiety can accompany either condition because spasms near or on the heart and trachea can interfere with breathing and bloodflow — two things sure to make the body, the brain decide death is fast approaching. Even when the trouble is almost certainly non-lethal and transitory, if not exactly quick. But just like a well-devised optical illusion, simply understanding what you’re experiencing doesn’t let you control or overcome it.)
Shallowing breaths become fast enough to drag my attention back into my body. This isn’t asthma, I wish it was asthma, but it’s easy to take a deep breath, let it out again. And yet there’s a tightness in my chest, beneath flesh and bone and sinew. Breath after breath cannot ease it, cannot quell the rising ̴̧̲͐f̶̙̀͜e̸̫͋̀ả̴͚̤r̸̛̜͙ that perhaps this time is different, perhaps this is the time when it’s not a passing spasm, but the time I—no, no! I know what this is, I recognize it, as hazy as the memory seems, as elusive as the thought — the very capacity for thought —feels in this moment. I’ve practiced this, practiced for this, over and over, day after day, conditioning myself to a particular action after a specific trigger. The whole world is contracting around me, awareness spiralling to a singular awareness of terrifying mortality, sensations distilling into a singular awareness that ̸͙̮͓̹̯̗̮̙̜̼̲̅̇ḿ̵̡̖̘͚̇̿͒͂̆̂͒͂͑́͋͘͠ȳ̷̜̩̯̠̞̼̼̆͗̈̔͑̆̋̇͘̚̕͝ ̶̧̧̛̪͈͔̹̞͚̥̰͔̣́͆̆͋̋̍̑̐͑͛̎̍̾̀̇͘ͅH̴̪͍̖̭̎̇̉̃̀͛̌̊́̋Ḛ̸̪̦̥͕̪̆͊̍Ă̷̳̪͙̟̓͌͛͊͗̐̊̂̍̀͊̀̄̈͝Ŗ̵̢̧͎̗̜̰͖̞͇̬̰̬͍̼̤̜̾͑͘͜Ţ̵̨̢̗̝̟̻͎̫̳̫͈̻̩̙̬̳͖̋̿̋́̂ ̵̛̘̠̫͖͕͔̥̩̗̳̩͚̣͈͚̘̈́̇̍̐́̀̋̏̀͛̕͜͜h̸͔̥̗̜̺̼͑̏͋̐̐̌͆́̂̿̿̿̑͑̓̆͝ǘ̶͈͍̉̽͛̓̉̇̉̕̚͝ŕ̴̯͔̞̖͚̖̙̺̦̪̹̘̲͖́͑͛̃̐̅͂̎̾̀̕͜͝t̶̢̝͍̫͔̥͔̲̗͔̀̂͐͑̂̐̌͑̄̒š̵̗̲̱͑̎͐̐̓̈́́̈́̂̏̃͗͛̕̕͝͝... I reach for the medication that I have near me at all times and manage seemingly by muscle memory alone to take one pill. I drink down as much water as I can, clinging to the sweet coolness as it travels through my tortured chest, trying to focus on how pleasant the water is and not on the insinuation from nowhere by my own brain that it might be the last drink I ever get to take.
I call the thought a lie, tell my brain it’s not in mortal peril, to stand down, to stop warning me about something I’m already fully, painfully aware of. But no matter what I try to focus on, distract myself with, I’m overwhelmed, overcome, fucking overwritten with the utterly pervasive and sure knowledge that my death is as imminent as it is immanent. All I can think of, no matter how I try, are my all-too-numerous unfinished stories, the dozens of other projects underway yet incomplete, the garden poised between blooming and unrealized fruition, the lost opportunities of roads untravelled and soon unreachable. Words spoken freely, but perhaps not intently or often enough; time irretrievably lost to vagaries of chronic, disabling illnesses. Above all else, the outright theft of years in the company of my kith and kin, of my beloved, my darling, light and lodestone of my soul. I know with a certainty you could crack rocks on that he knows I love him with every fiber of my being, every shred of my spirit and even my sanity. Yet as the waiting stretches out and out and out — I would say interminably, but no, it still all feels horribly, inescapably terminal — I keep wondering if that was enough. If I was enough. I desperately want to do more, be more, but it feels like there’s no time, even as the seconds sweep relentlessly past. My thoughts are an absolute frenzy of the need to do something, especially in what feel like the last moments I’ll have to do anything, but it’s like I’m being suspended in amber, a mere fleck caught in a preserved instant that already had its time and only continues to exist by chance and the tender mercies of those who carried on.
I take a long breath, and another, then a third. The medicine will work soon, I recall dimly, so dimly, reaching for that merest glede of memory and hope in the lowering dark of my thoughts. My pulse will stop hammering out memento mori, memento mori, memento mori... And if it does not, if my vision darkens further, if my fingers turn blue, or my lips go numb, there is another medicine I also keep near me at all times. But the moment for that is not yet here, and allowing the ̵̢̨̺̭̇̌͌̈́̆̐̕f̸͉̲͚̥̞̎̔́̽e̸͍̦̯̻͓̩̼̦̩̋͋̎̌͊̐ȁ̶̫̭̯͈̗̰͍̙͊̍̑̒̃̉͊ͅŕ̶͕̻͈̗̓̈̾̿̈́̕̕ to fully overwrite my volition will only hasten either my need or my ̶͇̃d̸͉̗͖͝o̸̱͛ͅo̸͎̞̪͊̅̒m̶̝̝̔̆. Scant minutes have passed by my watch’s telling, once I remember how to look, yet I need to collect tens of them and s̸͇͕̫̋̈́̂̿͐t̵͉͎̯̳̼̆̽̇i̵̗̦̼̮̕ḷ̷͇̎̅̽̆͗l̸̞̖͉͎̃ ̵̳̤́̏m̷͔̝̃̉̈̈̕ͅỵ̴͉͍̣͂̔̎̌̐ ̸̠̋̆̕h̴͔̹͋e̴̫͆́ā̶̻̱͒̂r̸̜͚̤̃̔̈́ẗ̷͉́͌̎̀͒ ̴̫̭͙̫̕ḩ̵͖͂̍̈̏ụ̸̪̬̤̥̒̂͝r̷̳̰͙͎̈́͂̀͠t̷̨̖̋ŝ̶̯̜̯̬.̶̘̄̓́͛̕
I scrabble for more distractions, ways to not think about my breathing or the dolorous thudding in my chest or death, death, ḓ̶̗̯͐̇̓͝ͅe̶͚͑ͅa̴̬̤͍͌́̈̾t̷̬̞̏̚h̷̝̬͍̏̀̀͝.̵̡͓̩͖̓͌̕͝.̴̧̼͍̿͗͝.̴͓̐ But there are only so many times you can kiss your cats and and whisper goodbye just in case, or tell your beloved that you’re scared of something so repetitive it’s become routine, even expected. It’s not that he wouldn’t care, or wouldn’t offer comfort; it’s that... it’s that... I want to keep this... contagion away from him. Panic is, after all, contagious, and even if he were here right now, even if I were about to die, here in the home we made together for so long, why would I want his final memories of my life to be my gasping, weeping terror? But I’m not going to die, the panic is a malicious tale told by a liar, and I know the more I focus on it, the more reality it gains. I reach for something to make, to finish, one more (one last, whispers the liar) act of creation, to empty myself into and leave behind (a legacy, sneers the liar, such a thin thread to your memory can’t endure). I open one of my WIPs, holding back the tears of urgency to finish just one more thing. And the thing I want to eke out just a little more of, even if I can’t finish, is McShep fanfic (ridiculous, mocks the liar). Because, as I’ve told my two dearest people, those stories are all written for her, and are, in their emotional core, about my beloved. I stare at the screen, but the words have no meaning, and I can’t connect to the words I want to write. I love you, I love you, I think to them, willing the feeling into the words already there, since I can’t add more.
(NB: Put it this way: remember the scariest moment of your entire life. Maybe it was the split-second before a car wreck, or the edge of hysteria when your secret phobia was triggered, or the time you couldn’t keep your head above water in the deep end of the pool. Take that moment, stretch it out so that it persists without diminishing, and THEN try to do something creative. Draw a portrait, paint a landscape, compose a poem, write a story. I can tell you now that the adrenaline of fight, flight, or freeze doesn’t lend itself well to any of that.)
Eventually, with the same near-imperceptibility as the initial build-up, the panic drains away. At some point, I’ll have stopped involuntarily touching my sternum, and my body will register fatigue and hunger. I’ll make a note of how many pills, and what kind, I needed to get through the episode. Not that it matters, but it’s a small act of normalcy in the aftermath of terror. I say aftermath, but it’s not really over — the sense of immediate doom may have faded, but the keen awareness of just how tenuous my continued existence really is remains vivid. Humans aren’t meant to be so constantly aware of death, even if it really on the n̴͚̍e̵͓͝ȃ̸̻r̵͔͒ ̵͖̓h̶̫̏ȏ̵̰r̸̙͆i̴͓̅z̵̰͘o̵͕͗n̷̳̽. So this Act doesn’t really have an ending, in part because there is no need to say goodbye, and in part because I know that all too soon the next beginning ̸̫̐c̴̜̈́ǒ̴͚m̵̺͑e̶͕͑s̵͍͘.̴̙̕
