I flew back to the East Coast from LAX on Sunday, and it was less than fun. My first flight had mechanical problems (the air system was pumping 144℉ air into the plane, and fixing of it was going to cause me to move my connector home. So they sweetly pulled me from the flight (instead of making me spend the night in Cleveland), and moved me to another one. Except by the time the gate agent sorted the second flight and packed me off to the gate, I missed the gate change announcement and therefore missed the flight. An hour later, after one of the worst panic attacks I've ever had, it was all sorted, and I had a direct flight to Dulles (which would then be accompanied by a 4 1/2 hour drive home). I won't even get into how lost my luggage is.
If you know me even a little, you know I'm a control freak. I can handle chaos, as long as I have some teensy measure of control to put on it. Doesn't matter what it is - just some small area I can affect change. But standing all alone, so far from home, with no one to help solve the problem of how to get home....that sent me over the edge. The problem with panic attacks is that they can come from nowhere, and even if you take all necessary steps to prevent them they will roll right over you if they want.
So picture me, insisting to a total stranger that I just need her to find a flight home, and I'll be fine. Except I can't get the words out, because I can't breathe. Nor could I stand, because things were getting spinny - so I sat. Right there on the floor, at the help desk, lol. It made sense at the time. And when I insisted I didn't need the damn paramedics, they came and respectfully stayed away, until I was calm enough to move. Then they checked to make sure I didn't want the oxygen they thought I needed. Seriously? Paramedics? No thanks. But they walked me to a fairly quiet corner where I sat for almost an hour, until I felt like I could get up and go with the super sweet gate agent who made sure I found the right gate home.
In the end the third scheduled flight of the day brought me home (or close to it), hours later than intended. And it left me with plenty of time to think about how much panic attacks suck. I'm pretty sure the flight staff was alerted to the fact that I might break (and already had once), because they were beyond nice to me. But really - it is so awful to feel out of control, and helpless. Awful doesn't even begin to cover it. For every single thing to be beyond my ability to fix is frightening. And it's like I step outside of myself, and watch it all fall apart. I can rationally understand what to do to make it better, but that massive wall of crazy won't let the rational mind take over. Hence, helpless - can't breathe, can't think, can't speak...just terrified.
The after effects are horrible. I feel like I've been twelve rounds with a prize fighter (and got my ass handed to me). Every muscle in my body is screaming at me, my chest hurts from trying to get air that wouldn't come, and under my eyes looks rather bruised. 48 hours later, and I've definitely got a face only my husband and kids can love, lol.
At the time, the whole episode seemed unsurvivable. Because that's what panic attacks are for me - sheer terror. Looking back, it was an epic fail on my part. But at least when (and it's definitely a when, not an if) the situation happens again, it won't be so unfamiliar, and the cliff I feel like I'm falling off of will seem a bit closer to the ground.