Lying silent in the darkness, I heard Gabe’s heavy breathing as he slept soundly by my side, our children dozing just yards away. Soon sleep beckoned, though less restful than I hoped for. I tossed and turned between dreams, resisting each one like an uninvited guest.
Suddenly I bolted upright in bed. My eyes cracked open to our darkened hotel room. All was quiet. Disoriented, I grasped at fragments from my dream state in those initial waking moments, but something was amiss. Mind groggy, I felt my eyes flutter. A cold sweat took over my body as I sat frozen in fear.
Panic whispered. An unexpected yet subtle return.
The moment I acknowledged its presence, the floodgates opened. Please no, not again! Erupting in the aftermath of a dream I couldn’t grasp, this attack came at a moment my defenses weren’t able to keep it at bay. As if jumping down a black hole, my brain surrendered to the adrenaline surge. I knew I must exit this tiny room in order to fill my lungs and relieve my pounding heart. I shook Gabe awake, begging him between gasps to help me get to the elevator. If I could just get to the lobby, maybe I would find relief. Wide-open space had a way of silencing the demons. Our children stayed asleep as the alarm clock glowed 3:20 a.m. No time to process further. We rushed out the door.
My body must run.
Stepping onto the elevator, I deployed learned breathing exercises to muscle through the descent. Seconds became minutes until my body burst through the doors into a tiled lobby. Inhaling large gulps of air, I mentally took in the vastness of the room. Heartbeats ebbed as I tried to recount the experience to Gabe in short spurts. He listened and looked at me intently. Breath by breath, I found a rhythm. Long moments of silence followed as I stared straight ahead. I calmed down. Finally it ended.
We were painfully aware that the attacks I’d avoided the past nine months were back. No words seemed appropriate.
After a little time went by, Gabe meekly suggested we check on the kids. Body drained and numb, I followed him back into the elevator and to our room, unsure of what was next.
We returned to New York with a heaviness. Why wouldn’t the panic attacks just go away? The days that followed felt somber. Much different from the weeks prior. No longer skipping down Fifth Avenue or delighting myself with pumpkin scones. This time panic accompanied me.
That fear-filled night in the tiny hotel room was only the beginning. I began experiencing an onslaught of attacks daily, each distinctly different from what I’d fought the year before. These attacks were smothering. No longer confined to tight spaces on subways and airplanes. These episodes took place in wide-open spaces as I gasped for air on the playground bench while my kids played in the distance. My anxiety manifested itself in shallow breathing all day and into the night. I strained for a deep breath to fill my lungs, the bottomless yawn that would never come. I researched breathing exercises each night before attempting sleep and whispered prayerful pleas in the middle of the night when I awakened.
The sleepless nights and a brittle reserve kept my loved ones at arm’s length. I would forge ahead through parent council meetings, curriculum nights, and class parent get-togethers, but my closest friends knew. The weariness in my eyes told a different story. When they would ask with courage what was happening, my response was always the same. Speechless, I offered a resistant shrug and smeared away a stubborn tear.
I’d almost tasted meaning, yet now felt further away than when this journey began. I walked long blocks days and nights regretting my belief that I’d found treasure, as if the pursuit of calling were a cruel joke. This now-distant promise of hope reborn drained my heart at breakneck speed.
How do I move forward when I keep falling back into panic?
How do I uncover my treasure when I’m struggling for breath?
This devastating relapse rendered something terrifying in my psyche for which I had no words. I couldn’t muster the courage to try to describe it to others. Panic knocked the first time during that dreadful flight the previous October. But the new year brought extended relief, and [our trip to the Grecian island of] Santorini tricked me into believing that awful season was past. This sudden setback left me wrestling the deepest angst of all. My hope was fading fast.
I began to believe I would never change, a thought that brought sadness and emptiness and new depths of desperation. Relapse felt brutal on the heels of unearthing my gifts. On the heels of discovering a place where I’d found community and the courage to learn a different story. A place where the depression and anxiety lifted and I’d begun to dream again. A season where I’d regained my footing, started making strides, and grown in confidence. I’d stood back up and embraced the idea of treasure because it was worth the risk. Relapse followed a place where I’d seen joy and it was beautiful. I’d felt emboldened from the adversity thrown my way, and I’d emerged stronger, taller.
Yet my relapse scoffed at all that now. With disdain and cursing. This hope reborn—which I’d feared for so long—suddenly felt like a lie. The resolve that had moved me into this healing place screeched to a halt. My heart felt trampled on the floor, leaving me reeling and fearing I would never recover.
The roller coaster returned. Just as life was looking up, the floor was dropping out from beneath me. This relapse meant something was here to stay and my will alone would not be strong enough to change it.
I only knew I’d reached a breaking point, and I was willing to do anything to change my situation—anything but stay. With no solution in mind, we left the conversation hanging, unresolved.
A week later I called my friend Shannon in Atlanta to process the options. I was thrilled to tell her of Gabe’s openness to a move and thought surely she would affirm my running. We could be neighbors again, getting back into those old comfortable rhythms.
Her wisdom silenced my justifications. She reminded me that though she would love to have me in Atlanta, my problems would only follow me back.
I understood this, but hearing it couched in love made it sink deep into my soul. Like a runner taking a mid-race breather, I paused long enough to realize that the race was already over, and my running wasn’t necessary. She urged me to stay—echoes from a year prior—and get healthy, because the only way I would find freedom would be to stick this out.
Confused by her next words, I dismissed them. It would be several weeks until I was able to comprehend them.
“Rebekah, perhaps your panic attacks represent something deeper,” she proposed to me.
“What if they are physical responses to your fear that you will never find what you were meant to do? Could the panic be an indicator that you are close to breaking through?”
Silence.
The conversation concluded without resolution. After hanging up the phone, I pondered what had transpired. Succumbing to my fear wasn’t only a dramatic change in my own trajectory, I thought, but also a demand for Gabe to compromise his calling.
Is there no way for both of us to live fully alive?
I felt a weight of responsibility, as if somehow this all depended on me. No one to talk to, nowhere to go. Who could make sense of my up-and-down reactions?
I must give in.
I’ll do what I swore I would never do. I’ll numb out.
We woke up the next morning after yet another restless night, and I told Gabe my resolution: I would take antidepressants to get me through. I was no longer able to cope and ready to do whatever I needed to do. I wouldn’t be able to live a normal life otherwise. I couldn’t raise my children haunted by the fear of emotionally losing it.
He stared at me with surprise and compassion in his eyes. “Honey, we can’t stay in a place that is making life so difficult for you. We should move.”
The date was Tuesday, September 20. Otherwise a normal day. Gabe went to the office, and I headed across the park for another Tuesday morning at Laura’s with hopes to conceal my troubles. As good girlfriends do, they asked me how I was doing. I shrugged and cried, again.
Without prompting, they surrounded me and prayed bold prayers. Long and loud. My hope was depleted. I was lost and confused. Yet this community of women believed in me. No, they believed for me. Their strength lifted me when I couldn’t trust on my own.
Before bed that night, I lay on my back with my feet raised high against a wall. (Breathing exercises had become a part of my normal routine.) Soon after, I swallowed the little blue sleep aid and drifted off to sleep.
Awakened, again. 3:02 a.m.