WebWordsAnxiety, Fear, Panic and Worry

I think I had my first panic attacks when I was 5 years old. I don't know what brought them on, but while laying in bed one night, I felt that I was "gasping for air". I didn't know how else to describe it. I couldn't sleep and my panic worsened as the "attack" became more severe. I sought my mother and tried to tell her what was happening, but she was angry with me for having left my bed. I was hurriedly given a spoonful of some medicine and sent back to bed with the threat of a smack. It didn't help.

It happened again the next night, with a similar outcome and after that, I was too scared to seek comfort, so I sought my pocket calculator and, under the covers, I made fake calculations; anything to take my mind off of what I was feeling. It worked. I eventually just grew out of them, I think.

By the time I reached forty, I had experienced a lot in my life, including a life-threatening illness, which nobody quite knew how I survived. Throughout it all, I had chosen to try to run a business, although my parents always did their best to dissuade me. The constant worry that they projected on to me, over time, destroyed my self confidence and most of my ideas never came to anything.

I had resisted taking out a mortgage to buy a property, mainly due to my father's insistence of "Never a lender or a borrower be", which he growled at me regularly. However, both he and my mother criticised me for never having borrowed money, in order to buy a house. That confused me.

In 1999, I bought the property which I still inhabit. Looking back, there have been many occasions when I regretted my decision and, to some degree, I still do.

I had been undertaking contract work for a number of years and, in 2002, I was offered and accepted "permanent" employment.

Having a cynic for a father and an over-protective mother, I have always tried, although rarely succeeded, to please them. At last, I had done something they approved of and they frequently reminded me "You want to hold on to that job of yours, son" and "You're lucky to have such a good job". However, what they never understood (or perhaps cared) was that I had a dreadful job; the worst job of my life, where I was bullied and under-valued. Gradually, it was destroying me both mentally and physically.

I was overweight; I also drank too much alcohol. I had no social life, no time for anything other than work and how to keep a roof over my head. I daren't tell my parents if I took annual leave, because, for some reason, they thought I would lose my job. It was the same if I were ever unwell. On these occasions, I would have to drag myself out of my "sick bed", into the car and drive somewhere, to make a telephone call from my mobile telephone, so that my mother would think I was on my way to work. What a life.

After three years of this, I nearly collapsed at work and was diagnosed with work related stress and chronic hypertension. My doctor refused to send me back to work until things had improved, and it was then that I realised something had to change.

It was during this time that the curse of anxiety crept upon me and, for the first time in my life, I began to suffer absurd and debilitating panic attacks. I could no longer go on long journeys; I was afraid of going into tall buildings and places such as restaurants or other people's houses. Thus, I found my life severely curtailed.

When I spoke about leaving my job, my mother would worry that I would no longer be able to pay the mortgage. She would say in an almost whining voice: "What are you going to do?!" The final word being emphasised by a higher pitch and keeping it ringing for a good second or two longer than necessary. I can still hear her words in my mind, as I write this. My father assured me "You won't have a stroke if you go back, son", and he did whatever he could to convince me that my doctor was wrong. It wasn't really about the house, but the "permanent" job that they so desperately wanted me to have. I knew, though, that I could not carry on how they wanted me to. I was not enjoying my life, neither was I actually achieving anything for myself.

After considerable turmoil and a great deal of careful thought, I eventually left the job that had caused me so much distress. I found the strength and willpower to stop drinking alcohol and I eased myself back into work, by accepting short-term assignments near my home. Eventually, I secured a succession of short-term contracts, and in 2010, I was engaged by a company on the south coast. There, I began to feel better; I was no longer bullied; I made friends and made a new start.

Things were improving; I had lost weight, my blood pressure was lower, I remained "on the wagon" and was able to do "normal" things, without much anxiety.

In July of 2011, I was "headhunted" by an agency, offering me a considerable increase in money and I decided that I was ready to move on. My mind, though, had entirely different plans. It was a warm summer and the nights were hot and I couldn't sleep, because I started to panic. The weekend arrived at the end of my final week at the workplace where I had felt so at ease. On the Sunday - a hot and cheerful day - I went out into the country with a friend whom I cared for a great deal; a lot more than I realised at the time. Unfortunately, unbeknown to me, that would be the last time I would see him.

That night was awful. I was alone and couldn't sleep. My mind was somersaulting, my anxiety and depression completely out of control. I telephoned The Samaritans at least three times, I even wrote down all the positive things that this contract offered me, but it was to no avail.

By the morning, I was a mess. I arose early, dressed, somehow managed breakfast and set off to my new workplace -a town I knew extremely well and which was not all that far from my home.

I did the usual introductions and sat down to start learning the new job. It was a sultry and hot Summer's day and, as I looked out of the window across the river, I just longed to be out in the lanes and fields of the distant countryside. I felt dreadful. I managed lunch, but ate it with an extremely dry mouth. I kept wanting to run away and just get out. It was so irrational; I had moved on in my work life so often in the past, without a fear or a thought. Why was it so different this time? The day ended and I hurried home. However, things weren't as peaceful there as they ought to be: my hateful, menacing neighbour hammered on my door and threatened me. That was all I needed.

After another turbulent night, I could not bring myself to go in the next day. Instead, full of guilt and shame, I drove to one of my favourite places and soaked up the warm sunshine, breathed in the mild, country air and gazed at the fine views. I was completely alone, and suddenly I found myself sobbing like a child. I felt broken, but also furious with myself. I telephoned my new manager and explained things to him, then I telephoned my mother, telling her the whole, sorry tale. Again, I became that small boy, who had to do everything his mother told him to do. She didn't say "I told you so", but I couldn't help but feel that she was thinking it.

I secured an appointment to see a doctor; her sympathetic manner helped me considerably. She arranged for me to have some counselling and gave me some anti-depressants, although I believed that my "salvation" was not in chemicals, but in healing my mind by understanding my issues. I began again.

It is now some time on from that awful time and I have put some of my life back together. I do not say I am "cured", but I do live a much less restrictive life than over the past few years. As I gain more strength and re-live the things I used to do, I am slowly beginning to forget. I know that by confronting my fears, they will no longer play a part in my life.

My parents still try to project their anxieties on to me, although I have distanced myself from them and am more aware of what they are trying to do. I don't think I'll ever understand why. Whereas my mother insisted that I telephone her every day, I now do so when I choose to. I tell her only as much as I feel is necessary. I also ensure my father, to whom I accept I will never be close, is only aware of the bare essentials of my life. They will never agree with many decisions I make and I know that I must reconcile within me the difficulties, sadness and tragedy of the years that have now gone.

Anxiety is unique to all of its victims; it is a product of our past, intensifying fears that reinforce and exaggerate feelings that are totally irrational and previously inconsequential. It is like a memory; once you have suffered anxiety, you will worry in case you suffer another attack. It thus becomes self perpetuating.

I often wonder why others who had anxiety were able to do some of the things I felt unable to. The answer is because we are all different. I also look on at people living without the constraints placed upon them by irrational fear.

I long for the times when I did not have these memories; when I went where and when I pleased. I hope they will return soon.