Anxiety Attack

An anxiety attack, I've learned, is appropriately named.

One minute, I'm fine. The next, I'm in the middle of a physiological, emotional catastrophe that I didn't see coming.

My body shakes like I'm outside in shorts in temps of 20-below. My mind wills the shaking to stop, but it won't. I'm overcome by a general sense of fear that's undefined yet definitely present. As the blood rushes away from my head, my face becomes pale and I feel lightheaded. I start to sob, uncontrollably and visibly. That's the part I hate the most. The other symptoms I can try to fake. But tears announce, loud and clear to others, that something's wrong.

The first time I ever had an anxiety attack was two years ago, on a 10-hour trans-Atlantic flight. Due to a mix-up with the seating arrangements, my husband and I were separated, with no chance of reassignment, as the flight was sold out. My seat was in the middle of the plane - halfway back in coach, in the middle of a five-abreast row. For nine hours and forty-five minutes, the flight was relatively pleasant. I read an entire book, ate a little, and had just the right amount of conversation with the woman to my left. Fifteen minutes prior to landing, however, I felt an overwhelming urge - no, a mandate - to get off that plane now. If I could have, I would have jumped out the window. I felt I couldn't sit any longer, though of course I had to. I might as well have had arm and leg restraints on my body. I felt lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Those were the longest 15 minutes I'd ever spent. When my husband and I reunited after deplaning, he wondered why I looked so pale. And then the inevitable tears came, though I was now safe from captivity. It was just my body's reaction to the anxiety ordeal. I couldn't control it, though I would have given anything to do so.

I've flown several times since that trip, and haven't had an issue at all. So it's not flying that caused my anxiety. It's not fear of heights that caused it, either. Confined spaces don't typically bother me. It was just a confluence of conditions that triggered the attack.

My second anxiety attack occurred today, again without warning. As I was sitting in the dentist's chair, being prepped for some non-routine dental work, I felt the symptoms begin again: the shaking, the illogical fear.

I know it's common - almost cliche, really - for people to be afraid of the dentist. But I never have been. It's not my favorite way to spend an hour, but it doesn't bother me, either. Until today.

So I excused myself to use the restroom, thinking that the short walk and the time alone would enable me to think logically and pull myself together.

It didn't work.

As the dentist started to work on me, I felt my my creases deepen, my involuntary frown nearly causing my eyebrows to touch. I crossed my arms like a stubborn child, and brought my knees up so I was practically in a fetal position. None of this I did purposefully. My mind ordered my body into protective mode. It wasn't long before the tears started rolling down my face.

I felt like a baby.

And I felt sorry for the dentist and his assistant. They were really doing a fantastic job. Nothing actually hurt; they were moving as quickly as possible; they were trying to make me comfortable.

I felt anxious anyway.

I just wanted to leave that dentist's chair, get to the safety of my home, and huddle under a blankie with my husband's arms around me.

But I'm a grown-up. So when the dentist offered to give me a break, I said no, I just wanted to get it over with. He understood.

And once the drilling was over, I was fine. My mind and my body relaxed as they finished up with the remaining tasks.

Still, the next time I need some major dental work - like, say, a root canal! - I think I'll go for the valium. Because if I'm going to act like a baby, I'd rather coo like one than cry like one.