Crawling Out of My Skin

Detailing a panic attack.

It’s midnight on a Friday and I feel like I am twelve years old again. I’m gripping the edges of my bathroom sink with the door locked, crying and gasping for air. My heart is pounding in my chest and I dry heave. I wouldn't say it feels like I'm dying, but it does feel like both my brain and my heart are going to explode out of my body and collide together midair, in a dazzling light show of fucked up thoughts and mixed emotions.

I think this might be what you call a “panic attack.”

I’m no stranger to these feelings — I dealt with them throughout most of my preteen years, but you never get comfortable with having a panic attack. A comfortable panic attack — that’s practically an oxymoron— the reason I have anxiety is because of that constant, inner feeling of extreme uncomfortableness that rests at the bottom of my stomach, waiting to be released every now and then. When that discomfort decides to rear its ugly head, it pushes its way up through my abdomen, yanking on my intestines, forcing itself up, up, up through my esophagus, finally pushing itself out through my mouth and then — nothing. The discomfort squeaks its way out and into the ether, leaving me gagging and breathless for nothing, reducing me to just a shell, doubled over in a ball of tears with a dry, parched throat.

Maybe if something solid or hell, liquid, even, came out with it I’d feel more satisfied. Being sick puts also triggers my anxiety and puts me on edge, but there’s always that relief of expelling evil from inside you. The nothingness that comes out is just a reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never truly be free from my internalized awkwardness and lack of comfort I battle with every day. Why? Why does this happen? Is there any particular reason for these attacks and how they seemingly occur out of nowhere, randomly?

There are a fuckton of reasons, actually.

All I need is one feeling, often self-imposed and embedded in my brain, about how I’m worthless or an afterthought, that feeling then collides with repressed memories of past attacks and similar feelings, culminating in an awful marriage with the constant uncertainty about my future and any extra deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy and resentment. It can be thoughts about how I’m not wanted, or that I’m missing out on something, that poke their way into my skull over and over and over again no matter how many times I try to push them away — like an old friend from childhood whose rough, strong fingers would poke my back until I finally snapped at her, a memory I would replay over and over in my tiny, child mind until I exhausted myself from mental self-punishment for my harsh behavior.

Other times it’s a news report dictating some kind of doomsday scenario that repeats itself over and over in my brain until I’m ready to pop. Or bad news about a loved one’s health. Or social media updates on sickly animals.

Often times it’s heavily dictated by PMS — this last attack certainly was. Mixed emotions of anger, sadness and frustration running at an all-time high during “that time” (ugh) coupled with cramps that feel like hands grasping onto my ovaries, twisting them around and thrashing them against my stomach, like two bikers in a bar fight.

Most often it’s a feeling of loneliness and an infinite sadness. But don’t let the flowery language mislead you: it’s not all soft grunge, ‘90s melancholia, pretty sad girls in babydoll dresses and flower crowns. It’s not a sepia-toned fantasy to write a poem about. It’s a real, genuine feeling of complete and utter emptiness. It’s an inability to connect with real, physical beings that surround and care for you. A gut instinct to push away anyone that may want to help, but a terrorizing fear of what may happen if they leave. It’s like sitting in a big, empty room where nothing feels like home, and the walls are moving in closer and closer and closer — like the Roy’s Castle level in Super Mario World, minus the Roy Orbison-lookalike turtle.

But those aren’t really “reasons,” are they? They are causes. Self-inflicted mental breakdowns triggered by external circumstances that catch me offguard, knock me to my feet, pick me up again and propel me straight to the bathroom where I end up a red, swollen mess in front of my bathroom mirror, praying that I can get out of my own head and clean myself up in time so no one will see me and ask me what’s going on. Think having a panic attack is rough? Try attempting to come up with an escape plan and a believable excuse about “allergies acting up.” It’s an extra layer of anxiety icing on top of the panic attack cake.

I guess I don’t know the exact reasons as to why my brain is hardwired to work against me whenever it processes information that doesn’t fit into my comfortable way of living. I’m not sure why my body and my mind decide to go into battle whenever they feel like it, like a battered husband and wife who get their kicks from picking fights with one another — it’s not fun for either and the makeup sex is never satisfying.

All I’m left to do is… deal.

I’m still in the bathroom. I’m still fighting myself. I try to focus on thoughts that will distract me from my brain’s attacks against my body and my well-being, and I begin a series of internal discussions. I think of funny stories from work. I think about an interesting article I read on The A.V. Club earlier that day. I wax poetic about ‘90s sitcoms. I remember images of non-sickly animals on social media. I play some solo rounds of FMK. I think about writing, remembering every detail so when this has all passed I can recount it in some way that might make sense to me or to anyone. I brush my hair, over and over and over. I act as my own spiritual advisor and guidance counselor and talk myself through my attack. Eventually, my breathing becomes a little more normal and consistent. Eventually, my face is slightly less red, splotchy and tear-stained. Eventually, I emerge from the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?”

I collapse in tears again, but this time it’s because I know someone is there. Someone does care. I’m not alone in this world with just my fucked up thoughts to guide me. But I’m a little mad at myself for letting it be seen.

Silence.

Other times I collapse alone in my bed, until my sadness exhausts me to slumber. I’m a little mad at myself for not just telling someone, anyone, what I’ve just been through.

But I always wake up. There’s always another side, a cliched “light at the end of the tunnel.” The attacks will always end, even if the anxiety never goes away. I’ll always come out the winner, just by coming out of it.

Jamie L. Rotante is a New York-based writer and editor/professional neurotic. You can read more about her life at JamieLeeRotante.net .