They are really hard for my husband to understand. He’s really sympathetic to physical pain, like dental work or surgery or broken ribs. But emotional pain is impossible for him to understand. I think part of the reason is that he’s never experienced it. I want him to stay with me, yet I push him away at the same time. I need people when they happen, but I put up barriers to keep people out. I wear the masks - the masks that many of us know so well. I try not to let it show.

I once read the single biggest fear, or phobia, among American adults is the fear of public speaking. Ever since I was on the debate team in college, I’ve loved public speaking. I really feel I’m in my element, and honestly I do quite a bit of it. Guess it just shows I’m not an "average American," huh?

There’s a lot written about panic attacks, but none of it makes much sense when you’re feeling one. I don’t think I’m going to die; I know I’m going to die. I can feel my heart skipping beats and beating erratically, like a frighten caged bird. My forehead gets sweaty and my head hurts. I know, at least at that moment, that I’m having a massive stroke. I feel hot and cold, and my hands shake so I can’t hold a pen and write. I need someone to hold me and reassure me.

I’ve heard that 80% of the people who go to hospital emergency rooms are having panic attacks, and that there is little or nothing physically wrong. I can understand that. I want someone to call an ambulance! Of course, my good sense says, "It’s just a panic attack. Don’t be a fool. The ambulance charged by the loaded mile." But good sense doesn’t have much to do with panic.

Panic is not the omnipresent, ambiguous anxiety that plagues so many of us. It’s more like a shot of pure, unmitigated terror. It’s my worst nightmare without a stage setting. It’s the most feared person I know without a face. It’s cold and lonely and awful. For a while, it’s impossible to think of anything else. People suggest thinking of a beautiful meadow with tall grass blowing gently in the breeze, or a peaceful ocean lapping at the shore. As far as I’m concerned, these are lovely images, but they aren’t worth a damn when panic attacks strike! I’m thinking about staying alive…surviving the onslaught of this dread enemy…wondering if I can manage to suck in the next breath.

And, in spite of how incredibly awful I feel, I know I have to wear the masks. I have one with a friendly smile, one with a mother face, one with a seductive wife, and one with a professional woman among my collection. There are lots of others, sort of one to fit any occasion. Maybe the masks are wrong, but I’ve learned to wear them well.

There’s not much more to say. I hope you never have a panic attack. Believe me, medications like Xanax don’t really help. Neither do cold water, peaceful imagery, or soft music. Neither do exercise or fresh air or food. Nothing…absolutely nothing…really helps until the horrid thing has run itself out. The one thing I am grateful for is that they come less and less frequently and they only last a little while, although that little while seems like an eternity.