My second attack

But no other panic attacks came. The summer holidays were on the way and days were spent enjoying the sun, taking the kids to various parks. I had a lot of things to juggle. I was in the midst of recording my second album, trying to promote myself as a musician, I had lost my drummer to another band and was taking a songwriting sabbatical from performing. I was a full time mum, recording at the weekends, managing housework, school runs and a busy social life during the week. It was a lot. It was too much. But I liked it that way. I felt a sense of accomplishment when it all went my way. Which it usually did. But I left no margin for error. One Saturday I spent 6 hours in the studio with my producer. I sang my heart out. Played to perfection. Three tracks semi finished in one day. I had truly got my money's worth. It was costing me £15 an hour for the priviledge. I had to budget for this well in advance as I didn't work. I was tired, but satisfied. My children would most likely wake me up in the night as usual. I wouldn't have as much energy tomorrow, but it would all be worth it in the end.

Then I got a phone call. There had been a computer error. All my work that day had been lost. There were ample apologies. I would get another 6 hours free. But I had to do it all again the next day. This would set my project back a weekend. And weekends were precious. I would have to give 110% again tomorrow when I was already exhausted. I took the news. I was in the kitchen. Water started to drip from the ceiling. My children were upstairs in the bath. Where was my boyfriend, was he watching them? I ran up the stairs. The bathroom floor was flooded. I dumped towels on the floor, called to my boyfriend to help and ran down the stairs to survey the damage to the ceiling. It had got worse. Water was pouring out of thin cracks at least 1.5 metres in length, right onto my brother's stereo which we were looking after for him. Right onto his treasured cd collection. Right onto some hand made jewel case inserts. Shit. More towels. Shit. What would he say? Shit. I sat down. I can't take any more bad news today. I go to bed. I get up the next morning. I'm still exhausted. I try to eat breakfast. All the while thinking about my day ahead. How my recordings would be less than brilliant because I was so tired. I scooped some fried egg into my mouth. My mouth was dry. My stomach tightened. I began to have a panic attack. I got up, found my paper bag the paramedics had given me and started to breathe into it. This was it. I was having my second panic attack.