In a nutshell

I was anxious on the plane. Fists clenched with my face in the air vents, determined not to have a panic attack, but wound so tight that I was forcing myself into one. We arrived. The first 3 days were fine, just as I had told myself they would be. I laughed, I drank wine, I felt free. I fantasised about staying there, not going home to my troubles, but living a calm life in a secluded spot in the woods, in control and without worry. Then something interesting happened. I had a conversation with my boyfriend's mother and sister in which they both admitted to me that they had also had panic attacks. The three of us sat around the kitchen table in a moment of shared commiseration. But merely mentioning them was too much. I had to excuse myself as I was starting to have a panic attack. I got my paper bag and found a room by myself to lie down in. I was uncomfortable. My heart was racing, thumping, I was hot, dizzy. This was not meant to happen. My holiday was supposed to save me from the panic attacks. If relaxation doesn't stop them then what will?

I will never forget the rest of that Christmas. Trying to bravely act normal when inside I was fighting panic. Making excuses for spending time alone, for seeming withdrawn. I wanted to enjoy my Christmas, I loved Sweden, the amazing food was part of the draw for me, but my appetite was gone, I was unhappy, I had returned to my anxiety state. I watched my children unwrap their presents from the other side of the room, but it may as well have been from outside of the window. I was present, but not in focus.

This time my anxiety state would last for two months without a break. If someone had told me what I was embarking on I might have tried to kill myself.