I had a massive panic attack last night. It wasn’t quite as bad as the attack last March, when I did my best Exorcist impression, but it was definitely a runner-up. For three straight hours, I was wholly convinced that I was forgetting to breathe. You read that right, forgetting to breathe.
There we were, relaxing in our China robes, watching Star Wars Episode II and everything was seemingly fine; maybe even great, until the clock struck 9:11 p.m., and I commenced to freak-the-f#%k-out.
It was as if the living room suddenly turned into the Gravitron. I was dizzy and my vision was blurred. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a thousand pounds. I couldn’t breathe. I felt disoriented, disconnected, like I was about to swallow my tongue.
But it didn’t come and go, like they usually do. I walked around the house, checked my temperature, inspected myself in the mirror, tried to breathe deep; and after twenty minutes of no relief, I found myself on the couch in a full-blown emotional break-down.
The next couple hours are a blur. I couldn’t calm down, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything but cry and hyperventilate. It’s hard to describe the mind-set and emotions that go along with a panic attack. Put plainly, it’s terrifying.
All logic goes out the window and emotion takes it's place. It's like you believe deep down that something is seriously wrong, when it's clearly not.