In which the blogger regrets circumstances of the weekend, leading to an essay on the physicality of anxiety

I want to explore what a panic attack feels like for me.

It begins with mile-a-minute images and ideas that strobe through my mind. They’re centered loosely around something I can’t control: emotional pain, social discomfort, distrust. The sensation is very frontal, as if the synapses are more than electrical impulses surging through my nerves. It’s tangible, this jerking knot of thoughts, shreds of words, little shards of worry and self-doubt. I feel it right behind my forehead, loud and insistent. It’s frustrating that once I clue in to this sequence, I’m already late to the party. These thoughts liquefy and seep down my spine. Muscles along the way tense. My arms begin their lockdown procedure against my sides, each fingertip tingles and freezes. I’m sure my palms sweat. At this point, I try to evacuate a room.

The feeling of emptiness, hollowness in my organs, is extremely disorienting. Each fiber of muscle empties itself, so the tightness feels fragile. I experience my esophagus and the top of my stomach. All the while, the tangle in my brain is crystallizing, encoding itself. I’m suddenly unable to focus on anything beside my object of perseveration.

This is when the “panic” starts. My lungs deflate and desperately begin trying to fill themselves. Hyperventilation. I hate the sounds my throat makes as I attempt to contain this. Fear settles in because of the lack of oxygen, and the worry becomes laced with real terror. My body rebels against itself, seems to deny its natural processes. Heart races. Abdomen constricts. Knees wobble. Ears ring. I’m shaking and I know it because the concerted gasps for air are quivering.

The solution lies in distracting my body from it’s manifestations of my anxiety. Usually, I snap a rubber band against my wrist or pinch my inner arm. These little pains are things my mind can’t deny, so a shift in focus slowly starts to occur. Most times, I’m on the phone at this point, having asked a friend to talk to me about anything, everything, allowing me to focus on their stories instead of my own. I’m walking, too.

It’s over in a matter of minutes, and the resulting gush of adrenaline makes me hyper-aware of my body. I’m immediately hungry, or thirsty, or hot, or cold. It’s like my mind snaps back into shape and is taking inventory. The best times see me returning to work, or a room, with a kind of chemical buzz. The worst are when a fight ensues over the very thing I was worried about, or I have to try to explain to someone who has never had the experience what it’s like. How do you explain how it feels when your body physically rejects your thoughts? How it feels to be a mere spectator to the whole event? In writing this, I’m hoping I can find an answer to that.