Life Isn't Just a Panic

Escape From the Prison Without Walls
by Denise Ranauro(excerpt)

      When I started driving at seventeen, I was fearless and daring. Without any hesitation, I drove anywhere, anytime, and in any weather. My friends would jump into my beautiful blue convertible and we would cruise around just for fun. Like most teens, I reveled in this new freedom. I could shop till I dropped or go wherever I desired.

      On a beautiful day in May 1978, my life changed drastically in an instant. I was twenty-five, the mother of a two-year-old son and six months pregnant with my second child. I was driving home on the highway from my part time job. Minutes before, I began to feel tense. Thinking I was just anxious about getting home to be with my son, I ignored this uneasiness. The anxiety started to intensify. Tremors, lightheadedness, sweating and intense pounding of my heart overtook me. My limbs seemed to be paralyzed and I was certain that I would lose control of my car. Fright progressed to terror. Death seemed imminent. In a moment I’d entered the prison without walls; to be incarcerated for well over a decade.
      Frantic and confused, I somehow managed to ease the car onto the shoulder of the road. As I turned up the air conditioner to the highest level, my head dropped to rest on the steering wheel. Taking deep breaths of the cold air, I attempted to revive myself, to "snap out of it." It seemed as if I was there a long time, but in reality, it was probably about fifteen minutes.

      On the next visit to my obstetrician I related the episode to him. He told me that this was nature's way of telling me, through my body, to stop driving for the remainder of the pregnancy. I felt patronized and I continued to drive locally.
      In the mid-seventies, panic disorder was not yet a diagnosis. My family physician attributed these symptoms to the stress of being the mother of two young children along with my desire to do my best rearing them.
      The parade of pills commenced. I was given low doses of an anti-anxiety drug that helped only occasionally. Sleeping and anti-spasmodic drugs were added to my prescription list. Taking three different pills at once offered no relief. When these remedies failed, I was given an anti-depressant drug.

      It wasn't until the mid-eighties that my doctor told me I was having panic attacks. By this time the disorder was presenting itself frequently and began to occur in situations other than driving my car. I was panicking on escalators, crossing main roads, in high places, and generally anyplace where there was no immediate escape.
      The medication was changed and the dosage increased. Gradually I improved but the fear of these attacks caused anticipatory anxiety and hampered any further progress. I avoided any situation in which I expected to panic. This debilitation was humiliating and extremely frustrating.
       If I had an attack at a certain intersection, I’d drive a different route the next time. I became very adept at eluding possible sites of occurrences. Traffic lights and driving in the center and left lanes were particularly unnerving. Sometimes I'd have to pull over and let other cars pass because of my fear of being in the middle of moderate to heavy traffic.
      There were many serious, though sporadic problems that concerned my marriage. One year I felt secure, and the next, I didn't. I noticed a correlation between these times and the remissions and recurrences of my panic attacks. I realized this much later on and it would help in my fight against the phobia. I may be biologically predisposed to panic, but psychological conflict, I came to believe, played a major role in the disorder.
      After fourteen years on the roller coaster ride of marriage, I sought the help of a therapist. Dealing with a professional gave me some peace of mind. The abilities of my therapist to calm me were incredible. During this time, I was able to almost wean off medication entirely.
      I could not afford the cost of therapy forever. After various relaxation techniques were taught, and all the insight I could possibly gain was now mine, the regular visits became occasional.
       Despite my expectation, the number of attacks as well as the dosage of my medication, crept up very slowly. Nevertheless, I was able to lessen the severity with the skills I acquired in therapy. It was necessary to chauffeur my sons, and sometimes their friends, to baseball games and other activities. Even when I began to feel an attack coming on, I'd use these tactics to either stop or lessen the panic. No one riding in the car had a clue of what I was going through. I was trying not to impress my children, fearing that they would develop phobia eventually.
      There was an advertisement in the local newspaper seeking volunteers to participate in a study of an experimental drug for those who suffer from panic disorder. Because this was a double blind study, the subject had to be willing to take an unknown drug. Neither the research physician, nor the patient would know which drug was being taken until the end of the study. There were three possible treatments: a placebo, a medication that has been on the market for some time, or the experimental drug. I knew in a short time that I was not being given the placebo. My body is extremely sensitive and the panic went into remission. The eight weeks passed and I learned that I had been taking the experimental drug. Ironically, this turned out to be the only drug that provided relief and produced no side effects in me. Four years later, it has yet to receive FDA approval.
      My participation in the study wasn't a waste of time; the relief obtained from the trial drug gave me the confidence to attempt to drive again. Each morning at five or six o'clock I'd get in my car and drive. I initially drove one block and went home. I then drove around the block each day for one week before venturing onto the main road.
      On to another psychiatrist. My choices of providers were limited by my health plan. The first doctor prescribed a few medications that were new on the market. Again, the side effects were too severe to bear. We agreed that I should go back to taking only the anti-anxiety drug. After a while, the physician had taken on so many patients that our attempts to make appointments became nearly impossible. I ended my treatment with this doctor feeling totally disheartened.
      The next doctor was contacted. After reciting my lengthy history in perfect detail from memory, I was informed of a fact that I had never known; the physician told me that I was one of a small percentage of patients who could not tolerate any of these drugs. I wish I had been told that before. It would have saved me from many unpleasant effects.
      I left a high-paying job as controller of a construction related company and did a minimal amount of chores at home. I felt I would never be the same energetic, bubbly person I'd once been. I did a little freelance work at home, but I loathed the cooking, laundry, and house cleaning I had to do. Activities I once enjoyed no longer interested me.
      Miracles do happen, though. My strength began to return when I kept reminding myself that I had two sons to raise. I knew that my constant state of depression made them sad. They alternated between efforts to cheer me up and wanting to be away from me.
      This is when I seriously began questioning each and every aspect of my life. Instead of burying them, I faced my conflicts head on, no matter what the consequences were. I accepted the reality of my inability to change certain things. I did all I could to regain faith in myself and my religion. As a result, a sense of serenity began to emerge. On most days, once I started driving, the tension abated.
      When the signs of an attack began, I'd divert my attention from whatever I felt was causing it. After these tactics brought success, it reinforced my confidence and determination. I no longer avoided everything altogether; I dared to conquer certain fears by thinking rationally.
      Only those who suffer from phobias such as panic and other related disorders truly know the havoc it can wreak in their lives and the effects it can have on their families. This dreaded affliction can cause depression, hopelessness, and ultimately, resignation.
      I know I'm not permanently released from this prison yet. But I've worked my way to the outside and am breathing the fresh air. Someday I may be able to drive the highway to lead me away from the prison permanently. The view is so much nicer from here and the sight of the full horizon awaits in the days to come.