I decided to surprise friends. After giving them a “maybe” to a drinks invitation, they would never expect me to turn up.
They wanted to take the new streetcar, which I should adore, but don’t. A streetcar is me being out of control. A car is me being able to flee home. So I cleverly drove myself there, as I was out anyway. I got a drink and watched the streetcar station for my friends.
Why on earth were we going to a grocery store happy hour? Well, I learned, the place has one of the most diverse crowds in town: uber drivers chatting with friends in L.A., students from India poring over college handouts, old ladies, fancy people.
I drank my drink, with my panic was biting at me. I was keeping it tolerable by writing on the only paper I had, a receipt. I drew a tree across the street, and wrote randomly. Half an hour later, I was bummed I hadn’t seen my friends, but also relieved that I had conquered my fear of going out to meet someone. (Don’t ask me why these things scare me. I currently believe this is truly an ancient wiring problem, and not any deeper psychological problem. My therapists haven’t been able to dig it out, and neither have I.)
Then my friends appeared, laughing. We saw a girl who looked just like you, with the same color coat and black beret (my signature), but then we didn’t see her again. When you say maybe to hanging out, you mean no. (Everyone does.)
We laughed and had another drink. With two drinks, I was feeling myself 100%. I felt charming, my friends were so charming, we were so fun. We watched a man carry a half gallon of strawberry ice cream to the checkout and wondered who was going to help him eat it.
Let’s take the streetcar to another bar, they said.
The panic part of my brain said, uh, nonono.
The other part said, yay!
I decided to repress the panic part.
We got on the streetcar.
We were going along, and my panic was talking at a normal volume, not screaming at me, but talking. I chatted up a young woman sitting in front of me. She had huge amazing eyelashes.
I wasn’t sure I had done the right thing. I could be about to panic.
The streetcar stopped. Huh.
The streetcar stopping is not anything like the subway stopping. When the subway stops, you are fucked. The streetcar can just open its doors.
“If you witnessed anything, please come forward,” the conductor said. Apparently someone had almost turned in front of the train.
Huh. This. Might. Be. My. Chance.
Also I had to pee, legitimately. I said I was going back to my car.
Walking on panic is generally helpful.
One of my friends kicked a pine cone. I picked it up and said, “How dare you treat him that way?” and carried the pine cone back to my car.
I drove home.
I had done it!
“In a world gone mad….”
You might be asking yourself, why didn’t you just tell your friends you were feeling panicky? Are your friends assholes?
No, having friends who aren’t assholes is one of my strengths.
It’s that panic attacks, unlike most emotional experiences, aren’t soothed by people knowing and comforting. (For me, anyway.) The best help I can get is distraction, distraction, distraction, while my brain misfires.
And later I’ll tell you the whole story of how insane I felt. Dude, I felt insane!
I think it’s sort of like how people who have had suicidal ideation or attempts aren’t supposed to talk about it with each other for a while. In a weird way, it’s contagious. Discussing it in the moment it’s happening can be oxygen for its fire.
Christmas Eve, I recalled that Christmas Eve church was one of my past panic attack locations. My panic is very space-specific.
I was a bit fidgety, and recalled where the bathrooms were, in case I needed to go in there and freak out.
But this year, I felt okay, and I kept feeling okay through the lessons, the children’s talk, the sermon, the singing. The singing helps tremendously. The pleasure of knowing all the words, and choosing harmonies during each, knowing the odd part of the melody that has no harmony, and thus requires unison singing, gives me such satisfaction. Knowing my ancestors celebrated Christmas for hundreds, if not thousands of years, warms me. Even if it didn’t mean anything to me, the history of it grounds me.
And it does mean something to me: a story really quite ridiculous and wildly historically illogical has lasted more than a thousand years because it’s a beautiful story. And because the story of the all powerful merging with the flawed human is an exciting move in human thought about the transcendent. A story about weakness being strength is a solid, great move for us philosophically.
(Of course other faiths have made this move, and in other powerful ways, but I’m covering my own tradition here.)
Anyway, it feels like my old friend zoloft may have locked into whatever goes haywire in my brain, filled in whatever gaps there are: 200 mg a day is what the brain needs. No problem, kid. I got you.
When the service was over, and I had not had a panic attack, and I had gotten a bite of Jesus (which I enjoy) as well as participated in my ritual with my sister, where we fight to be the last people in the sanctuary with our “Silent Night” candles still lit.
The eventually agreed upon denouement is that we put our flames together and blow them out at the same time. Then we go party.
Going On 