The Thousand Natural Shocks that Flesh is Heir To

The border between childhood and adulthood is when one realizes, without self-pity or distress, that nobody gives a shit about your problems. As Americans, we actually confuse visitors from other cultures with the automatic "How are you?" as a greeting because nothing could be more clear to them that we really, really don't want to hear an answer that is not "Fine," or better yet, "Fine. And how are you?" We'll sometimes get criticized for being shallow or insincere as a people, but if you're going to throw that charge at us, do it because we gave the world the Kardashians. It's not that the charge isn't true, I just don't think we should bother with an indictment for petty vandalism when it's possible to make a charge of nuclear terrorism stick.

You have your parents or your siblings or your besties, but the darkest truth to learn is that they're not really interested in any of the details of your problems either. They're not liars or sociopaths or reality-show participants, they're just people trying to handle their own shit and manage the related stresses. See what happens when something truly debilitating or long-term happens. They're engaged, they're helping, but after a certain point, aren't they really saying "hurry up and get better already. This worrying about you is fucking exhausting me"? Your family and friends are "supporting" you the way two voussoirs support an arch: if one goes, it's bad news for the other. If we really are the herd animals our community structures suggest, then at the smallest organizational level especially, we're only as strong as our weakest member. I'm not suggesting all interest is self-interest, but a lot of altruism is self-altruism too: I selflessly give of myself with the subconscious understanding that I need this person at my back when the lions come. In the form of one's own personal, emotional or psychological crisis. Or, I guess, also actual lions.

None of this, for me anyway, is as depressing as it sounds. It's not suspecting the motives of those who purport to help, it's just understanding them and also understanding their limits. And, ultimately, deflating the pressure in the guilt balloon slowly filling up as you breathe out frustration and annoyance when trying to help someone who insists on improving on their own timetable. If the action in the end still functions as meaningful support, it's OK to let the motivations or the lapses in feelings of pure charity go. Sometimes the best way to help someone else is to give yourself a fucking break.

There are lots of blind alleys and culs-de-sac* in the above, but all of it is to say: I'm cool with you, Dear Reader, not really giving a shit about what follows. And I say that with love.

Since I've turned 40, just a few months ago, and maybe before then as well, I don't really remember, I've found myself prone to panic attacks. These are relatively new and unpleasant, but also really, really interesting in the way I'm sometimes overly interested in the wax I dig out of my ears.

I'm not sure what the cause is, but I've doing the reasonable thing and self-diagnosing by using resources available to me on the internet. These are the same resources (generally speaking) that had me absolutely convinced for about 10 minutes a couple of years ago that I had a uterine cyst, so the track record is relevant. For the panic attacks, I've read thousands of words on dozens of web pages on the subject and I think I've come up with a diagnostic matrix that makes some kind of sense for me. The causes of panic attacks, as far as I can tell, are:

1) Panic

That's as far as I've gotten.

For those who haven't tried out panic or anxiety disorders before, it's a fun way to come nose-to-nose with your mortality as they involve a near absolute certainty in the moment that you are about to die, of a heart attack or a brain aneurysm or a bear attack or something. Luckily I'm not Tony Soprano, so I don't have to worry about them while I drive. They only seem to hit me in waves juuuust as I'm drifting off to sleep. That's a good time, right there. Wake up four or five times the same night, alone in the dark, disoriented and shot full of self-administered adrenaline. Go to work the next morning with heavy eyelids, shuffling lethargy and a tendency to nod out. These also happen to be all the tell-tale signs of opiate addiction as well, by the way. Who doesn't love a good chat with HR though, honestly?

So far I'm managing without help. They come and go, in little clusters here and there. Doing it myself makes me feel like I'm handling it with the stoic perseverance of one of those Greatest Generation Übermenschen Tom Hanks likes to fetishize. More likely it's because it would involve doctors and I'm regular GenX ascared.

Maybe it is a function of male-ness that I feel like I can handle it at this point without intervention. From what I've read so far, the version I'm dealing with is pretty mild. There's no gross dissociation from myself, there's no nausea or dizziness and it certainly doesn't last hours on end. I'm able to actually form rational thoughts even in the midst of the episode, where my brain is telling me I'm about to die, but not all of my brain. One part is usually alert enough to recognize what the signs are of a panic attack and eek out profound nuggets of wisdom like "you're having a panic attack. It won't last forever." Sounds dumb, but something like that tiny bit of perspective is the difference between water-boarding and actually drowning.**

It may be realization of mortality that's getting to me or increased work stress or... I don't know, I don't feel like I have the attention span or energy at this point to expend on the investigation. All my personal-life stuff, I'm happy to say, is locked down and locked down hard, so it ain't that. What else is there? My uterus remains cyst-free. Things could be so much worse.

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*I don't know that this is the actual plural for cul-de-sac, but I so want it to be. It stays.

**No, I didn't just compare my involuntary episodes of imbalance to voluntary human torture. It's a metaphor about degrees of peril, imposed and perceived vs. actual and immediate. This aside is very defensive. Sorry.