This bit is meant to follow this. Enjoy. ----------
In the coming months, this scenario would play itself out hundreds of times. The pounding heart, the blurred vision, the lightheadedness, the sweaty palms and jelly legs and gasping for air, and always the belief – the absolutely certainty – that I was dying, that these were the final breaths I would ever take.
It happened in all kinds of settings, when I was alone and when I was with others, in taxicabs and elevators, restaurants and bars, shops and department stores. Every few days at first, and then almost every day – and then, sometimes, two or three times in a single day.
Once, at work, telling my coworkers I was feeling “a little sick,” I retired to the darkness of the office of a vacationing vice president, where I lay on the cold, hard floor behind his desk (the last thing I wanted was for anyone to see me behave so strangely) to ride out the storm.
Another time, I spent most of the 4th quarter of a Knicks game in the corridors of Madison Square Garden, among a smattering of hot dog and pennant vendors and bathroom-goers, faced with an impossible decision: return to my seat and the unbearable frenzy of the crowd, or escape the arena and take a taxi home, which would result in my friends asking me all kinds of questions I didn’t want to answer.
At first, during these attacks, I wondered whether the people around me could tell that I was in the grip of something intense and threatening. Certainly, I thought, these attacks were producing signs clear and obvious to the world at large. Was I embarrassing the people in my life, the way they might be embarrassed by a legless guy begging for change on a street corner? Was everyone just being polite, giving me space to get ahold of myself? Then I’d catch a glimpse of my reflection – in a barroom mirror, in a department store display window – and I’d see that, despite the storm raging inside me, for all appearances I was the same perfectly healthy- and sane-looking young man I’d been before; yes, I wore an intense, faraway expression, but otherwise there was nothing notable about the way I looked.
When I was seized by these more public paroxysms, it took every effort I could muster to hold it together. Often, I walked away from dinner and workplace conversations with only a vague recollection of what had been discussed or what my contribution had been.
I’d get an occasional respite – a calm weekend here, a relaxed few workdays there – which I’d take as a sign I was becoming my normal self again. But then I’d be besieged by another attack, and I’d remember how terror feels, and the cycle would begin again.
Invariably, in the wake of these attacks, I felt wiped out, utterly fatigued in mind and body. Like I’d just pulled consecutive all-nighters to finish a college paper, or completed a three-day forced march with an 80-pound pack strapped to my back. Once my body and mind calmed, all I wanted to do was find someplace comfortable where I could lay down my head and lose consciousness. The comfort of my bed had never been so precious to me, and I walked through my days feeling constantly sleep-deprived.
At the same time, paradoxically, in some ways I’d never felt more alert. Even as I fought off the urge to nap, I’d be scanning my body and my environment, on the lookout for signs of internal disequilibrium and external threats. I was wide-eyed, hypervigilant, like a hunted animal. As tired as I was, I had enough adrenaline running through my system to keep me going until I could fall into bed and crash each night. The questions would run through my head, one after another, ceaseless. How long had it been since the last one? How long would it be before the next?
This is not to say that panic had completely taken over my life. I still played basketball on Tuesday nights for the team of the law firm where Hubie worked as a paralegal; I still went to Vermont with friends for ski weekends. I still managed to laugh, to flirt, to enjoy good meals and good movies. But panic had began to haunt me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I sensed it there, in the corner of my consciousness, watching me, waiting to strike.
This bit is meant to follow this. Enjoy.
----------
In the coming months, this scenario would play itself out hundreds of times. The pounding heart, the blurred vision, the lightheadedness, the sweaty palms and jelly legs and gasping for air, and always the belief – the absolutely certainty – that I was dying, that these were the final breaths I would ever take.
It happened in all kinds of settings, when I was alone and when I was with others, in taxicabs and elevators, restaurants and bars, shops and department stores. Every few days at first, and then almost every day – and then, sometimes, two or three times in a single day.
Once, at work, telling my coworkers I was feeling “a little sick,” I retired to the darkness of the office of a vacationing vice president, where I lay on the cold, hard floor behind his desk (the last thing I wanted was for anyone to see me behave so strangely) to ride out the storm.
Another time, I spent most of the 4th quarter of a Knicks game in the corridors of Madison Square Garden, among a smattering of hot dog and pennant vendors and bathroom-goers, faced with an impossible decision: return to my seat and the unbearable frenzy of the crowd, or escape the arena and take a taxi home, which would result in my friends asking me all kinds of questions I didn’t want to answer.
At first, during these attacks, I wondered whether the people around me could tell that I was in the grip of something intense and threatening. Certainly, I thought, these attacks were producing signs clear and obvious to the world at large. Was I embarrassing the people in my life, the way they might be embarrassed by a legless guy begging for change on a street corner? Was everyone just being polite, giving me space to get ahold of myself? Then I’d catch a glimpse of my reflection – in a barroom mirror, in a department store display window – and I’d see that, despite the storm raging inside me, for all appearances I was the same perfectly healthy- and sane-looking young man I’d been before; yes, I wore an intense, faraway expression, but otherwise there was nothing notable about the way I looked.
When I was seized by these more public paroxysms, it took every effort I could muster to hold it together. Often, I walked away from dinner and workplace conversations with only a vague recollection of what had been discussed or what my contribution had been.
I’d get an occasional respite – a calm weekend here, a relaxed few workdays there – which I’d take as a sign I was becoming my normal self again. But then I’d be besieged by another attack, and I’d remember how terror feels, and the cycle would begin again.
Invariably, in the wake of these attacks, I felt wiped out, utterly fatigued in mind and body. Like I’d just pulled consecutive all-nighters to finish a college paper, or completed a three-day forced march with an 80-pound pack strapped to my back. Once my body and mind calmed, all I wanted to do was find someplace comfortable where I could lay down my head and lose consciousness. The comfort of my bed had never been so precious to me, and I walked through my days feeling constantly sleep-deprived.
At the same time, paradoxically, in some ways I’d never felt more alert. Even as I fought off the urge to nap, I’d be scanning my body and my environment, on the lookout for signs of internal disequilibrium and external threats. I was wide-eyed, hypervigilant, like a hunted animal. As tired as I was, I had enough adrenaline running through my system to keep me going until I could fall into bed and crash each night. The questions would run through my head, one after another, ceaseless. How long had it been since the last one? How long would it be before the next?
This is not to say that panic had completely taken over my life. I still played basketball on Tuesday nights for the team of the law firm where Hubie worked as a paralegal; I still went to Vermont with friends for ski weekends. I still managed to laugh, to flirt, to enjoy good meals and good movies. But panic had began to haunt me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I sensed it there, in the corner of my consciousness, watching me, waiting to strike.