Anatomy of a Panic Attack

Click.

With a subtle swipe of my hand while wiping a fresh coat of stain on the inside of my closet door, I inadvertently push the door shut.

And since I have diligently removed the door knobs but left the latching mechanism in place, I know in an instant what has happened.

I've locked myself into my closet. 

The scene of the crime.

Well, no matter, I calmly console myself. Thankfully, there are plenty of people at home who can come to my rescue. 

And sure enough, with my playful call of "Halp! Someone come halp me! I'm locked in my closet!" I hear footsteps in the hall and my bedroom door squeak open.

My fourth-born has heeded my cry.

"Just grab a screwdriver and jimmy it into the latch. It should spring free," I confidently advise.

But after a few seconds of silent futzing, my daughter speaks. 

"Uh, I'm going to go get Dad. I'll be right back."

Very well then. 

Might as well put my time to good use, right? So I keep on with my project, dipping my cloth into the can of stain and wiping in onto the thirsty wood. So satisfying. 

Hmm. Interesting, I think. This is a slightly claustrophobic situation but I feel absolutely no need to panic. 

In a flash, the memory of a truly traumatic claustrophobia-induced panic attack sweeps through my mind

I am in Hyderabad, India, visiting an ancient Muslim monument, and the crush of humans pushing toward the only exit - an extremely narrow set of worn, uneven stairs that spirals four floors down through a tiny turret - sends me spinning out of control. Thankfully, we find a worker who allows us to bypass the crowds and slip out through a different, employees-only turret staircase. This beautiful angel not only rescues me but holds my hand as she leads me and my companions through the darkness to safety.

You can read the full story of my Indian panic attack here.

But of course, this scenario is entirely different, I encourage myself. I can wait here in the safety and comfort of my cozy closet indefinitely as my rescuers make their plan.

Everything is just fine.

* * * * *

That's when the fumes hit me.

With reasonable ventilation, I don't mind the smell of stain or varnish; to the contrary, the pungent chemicals invigorate me with good project vibes.

But shut tight in my closet, the vapors immediately pack a more powerful punch.

My adrenaline kicks in. Hard. A melody of malaise begins to jangle in my mind.

I strain to hear the staccato of footsteps on the stairs. Or voices of concern echoing from below. But I hear only silence.

Ok, slow down, I tell myself. My rescuers will be here any second and set me free in a snap. 

But what if they aren't?

My rational brain attempts to interrupt this symphony of the sympathetic nervous system.

Come on, there are plenty of ways to solve this problem. They can take the door off the hinges. 

I glance up at the door frame to note that the screws to the hinges are tucked inside the closed hinge, completely inaccessible to humans on either side of the door. 

They can pull the entire latching mechanism out of the door.

Uh, sure, if the door is open. But with the door shut, the latching mechanism is lodged firmly in the side jamb. 

Well, at the very least, they can give me a glass of water while they take a sledge hammer to the door. 

And as I glance at the pitifully small crack at the bottom of the door, my worries reach a full-blown crescendo.

* * * * *

Trying desperately to gain control of my runaway brain, I seek any rational action. Improvisationally, I put my face to the floor, hoping to catch any current of fresh air that might be wafting around down there. 

But all I smell is the freshly stained door. 

My mind spins. 

Pure, raw panic surges through me. 

I sit back on my heels for what might have been an hour, might have been ten seconds. 

Then I hear my husband and my daughter at the door. 

"Please, put the fan up close to the door. I need fresh air." 

"We're getting you out of there right now," my husband replies. 

My beautiful rescue. 

Click.

The door swings open.

I step out into the fresh air, and my panic floats away like the fading notes of a melancholy song.