Documentation for a Good Day

This is about a panic attack. Vomiting, intrusive thoughts about dying. Skip it if today isn't the day.

I'm not sending this out as an email, I just needed to write it down somewhere that wasn't private. Call it a public diary entry. If someone wants to read about me having a panic attack, it will find them.

This is not a pretty, heartwarming or flattering story. I’m telling myself I'm writing this as a public service. To add some real life to the internet, or something. I'm also writing it as documentation for future me, who will sit across from a therapist on a good day and say “I’m doing well.”

A few days ago one of my kids got sick. The middle-of-the-night kind, the kind you know will eventually move through the entire family. That alone was enough for the anxiety to start. I had an important work delivery the day after and I just powered through. I messaged some friends saying “I’m doing this thing in 5 minutes and I’m so freaking nervous.” When I began to feel ill I stopped eating. I started an AI conversation from “How do I know if I feel ill because I’m anxious or sick?”. I went back to it later and wrote “it was probably both.” When I eventually threw up I had a few hours where I genuinely thought I was going to die.

I couldn’t get up from the floor. I was shaking and I had no control over my body. I was unable to speak. I couldn't tell if I was cold or terrified or both. The only things that helped were my husband’s touch and the warmth of the shower. My husband had to pick me up, close the blinds and take my phone. I had been holding it the whole time, scrolling for help. Because music made it worse. Distracting myself with Instagram reels didn’t help. Talking to an AI didn’t help shit. Stress relief content made my brain louder. Anything that required my brain to engage with a screen added to the thing my brain was already doing to me. I didn’t need more input. Yes, I was having a panic attack while my body was fighting a virus. The only things that helped were his hands and the warm water.

In the middle of all this, between rounds of vomiting, my brain was running a list. I was going to meet a friend the next day and I didn’t want to cancel again. We’re going on vacation in a few days and haven’t even started to pack. I need to repot all the tomato plants before we leave, do I even have enough pots and soil? Will I need to run an errand during the weekend? Will I be able to leave my house? Do we have enough groceries at home? Who can I ask for help if the entire family gets sick? I don’t have time to get sick.

And why does it feel easier to order home delivery than just simply text the neighbors and ask for help?

I knew from experience what would happen if I missed my SSRI, so I used the last of my energy in the middle of the night to go up and take the pill. I skipped the allergy meds and vitamins in my weekly pill organizer because I had to prioritize. I was feeling better the next day, still couldn’t make myself eat though, so again I just took the most important pill of the day.

By day three I woke up dizzy and snapped at everything. Food grew in my mouth. My chest was tight, and my neck so tense I had trouble breathing. It felt like the withdrawal I’ve had before when I’ve forgotten the meds. A quick look in the pill organizer, and I realized that I’ve taken the allergy pill for the last two days but not the SSRI. Great one, Emma. Really great. There I was proud of staying on top of the meds but had picked the wrong one twice. Of course I had. I think my hand went for the familiar shape, round and tiny, not the big probiotic capsule. But the pharmacy gives me a different brand every time, and this batch of SSRIs was a yellow-ish oval I didn’t associate with the pill I’ve been taking for years. So my hand reached for what looked right, and what looked right was the allergy pill.

I wrote this in a conversation with Claude three hours after I took my SSRI again, I was crying the whole time because of the thoughts the conversation opened up. A few hours later the dizziness eased enough so I could move around. After about six hours I felt well enough to drive to the grocery store to get some dinner. I’m editing this text on my own 24 hours later, as most of the anxiety has left the body.

What still bothers me though, is that same part of me that spiraled through every consequence of being sick while I was being sick is the same part that can now lay on my bed with my laptop and describe it. The thing that makes me anxious is the thing that lets me write this down. And I don’t know what to do about it. I tell myself I write this for documentation or public service or whatever. I’m really writing to process a panic attack seemingly triggered by the overload of being sick.

On the bathroom floor I thought I was dying. I couldn’t get myself up. And in that state, with my body refusing me, my brain was still doing logistics. Is this what dying feels like? Was I unwell enough for an ambulance? I would need my husband to speak for me, so what would we do with the kids if I had to go in? I was triaging whether I was allowed to need help, because needing it would create a problem for someone else.

I didn’t need the hospital or IV. I just went to bed and slept for 12 hours while my husband was dealing with the other kid also getting sick without me even noticing.

My anxiety has lived in my throat for as long as I can remember. In my twenties I went to a doctor about it and was sent to a throat specialist who took one look at me and said there was nothing wrong with my throat, I was just anxious, but well enough to seek out more help if I needed it. Well enough, huh. Look at me excelling at being well enough. I think I have been organizing my life around it ever since. Well enough not to bother anyone. Well enough to keep the plans. Well enough to take the trip. Well enough to tell the therapist, on a good day, that I’m doing well.

I am writing this down because I am not always well enough, and the version of me who will minimize this in a month deserves the evidence. The tight chest as I type. The food that I couldn’t make myself eat. The thoughts on my bathroom floor.

For next time, Emma, this is what helped:

• Enjoy your garden, look at the plants growing, and look at the tree tops.

• Hug your husband and hug your kids

• Knowing it will pass is super annoying advice from someone else but knowing it yourself might actually help

• Write, share and don’t hide

And well enough is not the same as well.