Am I proud...

Last night was the second performance of the symphony in my season tickets.  The first night was rather warm for me.  I suspect that the venue was warm because needing air-conditioning on September 28th was not something to be expected.  With heat making me quite ill and having another unusual warm-up in the weather (remember, I had a fire just a few days ago), I knew that I had to choose an outfit that would be cool.

I did.
I had a full-blown panic attack.
I nearly drowned in panic, fear, despair, and shame.

It had been three years since ... three years, one month, and six days since I found myself wearing many, many layers.  Even the work clothes I choose were layers topped by jackets or suits.  I could do that because I had my own air-conditioning unit in my office since multiple sclerosis makes me so sensitive to heat and the building in which my non-profit was housed had a poor, oft-broken system.

Trying to find appropriate clothing (translate that anything that is not men's lounge pants and a hoodie) that fit is not easy.  Most of my work clothing (the only real nice attire I had) is far too large for me.  I have given much of it away, but have kept the suits and silk jackets primarily because of their beauty and investment and knowing I would never be able to afford such again.  I suppose I have silly hopes that someone could cut down some of the clothing for me one day.

The only real option I had that would be cool enough is a completely fitted outfit, with an outer covering that was knitted eyelet (i.e., see-through).  The skirt is not actually ankle length and not something with which I could wear my leather boots.  The skit is fitted snugly from waist to hips, then falls straight with a flare only at the bottom.  I had a shell and the knitted top, both of which are fitted.  Simply put, there was no where to hide in my outfit.  To me, I was stark naked.

It was the first time ... since.  I started trembling and shaking and my mind became lost in a maelstrom of fear and shame and panic and frustration because I wanted to go the symphony.  This.  This was supposed to be my "something normal," "something non-utilitarian," "something for me."  This is my raising-my-quality-of-life activity.  And there I was vomiting and trying to find a measure of rationality that I might actually go and hear Brahms.

I tried to call my best friend.  No answer.

I tried to call Mary, to tell her what was happening and ask her to pray.  She  would not judge and she would say something about Jesus and tell me a story about her life and then she would pray after we hung up. I know she would do this and time was running out.  Only her husband answered.  Mary was at a pastor's wives retreat.  Weeping, I tried to explain, even though I was hugely embarrassed, because I knew the Living Word would be the only way I could get through what was happening.  If I had any courage at all, I would have asked him to read a Psalm to me.  He would have.  I think.

So, then I tried to call Anna.  Because she would at least carry me to the altar with her on the morrow and she would understand what I meant without having to explain.  And she would pray.  No answer.

Then, I hit myself over the head, thinking I should call Marie, because she knows full well panic attacks.  She answered the phone!  Marie answered the phone and stayed with me as I got myself, still weeping and shaking and nauseous, out the door.  Marie talked about how bad panic attacks can be and she reminded me that once the performance started, the lights would be dimmed.  And Marie stayed on the phone with me until I got to Sandra's, who was then driving me to the theatre so I did not have to worry about parking or ask the police to fetch my car again.

Still fretting in the car, wondering even as we drove to the symphony, how in the world I was going to get out of the car, walk amongst so many people, and sit through the performance drowning in panic a and terrified of the things running through my mind, things from that night and things from my past and all the thoughts I have about my body, my body that was not hidden from others ... or from me.

My Good Shepherd served me well through Sandra's mouth, for she remembered about my calm down list and practices and asked me if I had a pinecone.  I did not have one on me, but I keep one in my car. I have kept one in my car ever since the flashback-caused-car-accident.  Even though I was ridiculed about having a pinecone in my car.  Even though I was told that if I ever wanted to be normal I would get rid of the pinecone in my car.  It was still there.

And then it was in my hand.

I was so late, I was worried that I would miss the start of the first piece and thus have to wait out in the lighted landing before I could take my seat.  But the theatre is close enough, really, that were I healthy and had a companion, could walk to if I wanted, being less than two miles from my house.  So, even though we pulled away from Sandra's home on the street behind me with just 8 minutes to go before the performance, I arrived in time to climb Mount Everest to my seats and fold and put away my cane before the orchestra started the tuning that signals they are ready to begin.

Climbing Mount Everest whilst holding a pinecone, clutching a handrail, and leaning heavily on a cane is actually not all that easy.  But I did not want to put the pinecone in my purse. I needed to be able to concentrate on the sensation of it in my hand ... round, firm, sharp ... and the reminder of things I savor ... trees, evergreens, pine needles, nature.

The thing about having a full-blown panic attack is what comes after.  Once those stress hormones are no longer pouring forth from your brain and flooding your body, once you are not longer fleeing your fear, your body collapses in relief.  During the first movement of the second half, that strange exhaustion that makes your entire body feel as if it has become the weight of an elephant, that makes even thinking a thought, much less remaining seated in a tiny seat in an historic amphitheatre nearly impossible.  I thought about texting Sandra to come fetch me, but I did not want to leave, to miss the music for which I had come, or to disturb others.

I lost track of how many times I started falling asleep in my seat, only to jerk myself awake.  The pinecone I had tucked away at intermission came right back out as I tried to use those sharp edges to keep myself from snoring in the balcony.  Descending Mount Everest was one of the hardest physical challenges I have faced in a long while.  My legs simultaneously weighed thousands of pounds and were made up of water rather than muscles.  The usual cacophony that arises from a departing audience was silenced by the concentration it took to put one foot forward, lower my weight to the step below the one on which I stood, and then bring the other foot next to my first one.  Years passed between the first step and the last.

As I was walking out, a chatty woman remarked that I was so brave to sit in the balcony, having watched me come down the stairs.  Normally, I would panic by having to interact with a stranger like that, but I was truly thankful for the exchange. My explanation about my hearing and the need to be in the best auditory spot in the building carried me across the lobby and out the doors and kept me vertical while I waited for Sandra to pull the car into the pick-up lane.

Talking a mile a minute about the music and the new instruments I had never seen before kept me awake during the ride home.  Were I brave, I should have asked Sandra to drive me home and walk back to her house. She would have.  I think.  I did not.  So I actually drove up on three different curbs between her house and my garage.

I stumbled to the back door, unlocked it, and fainted.
Amos came to greet me and lick me awake.
I crawled forward enough to shut the door and then napped with Amos on the kitchen floor.

On the way to the symphony, Sandra suggested that I concentrate on the fact that I was battling a fear and that when the concert was over, I could be proud of the fact that I survived wearing fitted clothing and the ensuing panic attack.  The problem is that I am not sure I know how to be proud of being felled so thoroughly by fear, felled in mind, body, and spirit.  I look back at last night in shame.  I am horrified by whatever it was that I said to Mary's husband.  I was babbling in fear.  Anything could have passed my lips.  Today, I had a mess to clean up in the sink, the tub, and the toilet.  I honestly cannot quite believe I did not also vomit in the balcony as I was still battling the panic during the entire first piece.  All I can think about are all the things going to the symphony is supposed for me, rather than what last night was.  And I think about how grateful I am that couple who have been occupying the seats next to me for the past 42 years warned me that I might even need a lap blanket once fall and winter set in because the balcony is rather cold at the Embassy Theatre.  Cold means many, many layers.  Cold means being able to hide, rather easily, in my clothing.

Paul and Marie treated me today to IHOP pumpkin pancakes.  I brought my old iPod with me so that I would have access to two Kindle apps so that we would have two copies of the NASB 1977 so that we could read some Psalms together.  But when I mentioned that, it seemed to me that reading psalms in IHOP was not something either of them though was ... a good thing to do.  So I dropped the idea.  And then I was too chicken to ask them to read them in the car or read them in the house, when they carried in the milk I bought when they took me to Target to pick up more of the innards medication.  But, oh, how I long to hear the Living Word.

I still want to hear what is true and right and salutary, rather than the lies of that panic attack that are still lingering in my mind.
I still want to hear what is good about creation and His created, rather than the bad I feel about my body.
I still want to have prayers written for me, spoken for me, and carried for me to the One who can (and will) save me.

Trying to distract myself, I have been searching for the new instruments I saw last night.  Googling images of instruments a bit frenetically to stave off the thoughts swirling within.  I believe one was a celesta and once was piccolo.  One I have yet to identify is some sort of extremely tall reed instrument that was a flat coil.   The other was a hanging disc.  I saw other instruments as well, such as a triangle, which I never would have fathomed would be used in an orchestra and used so perfectly and so beautifully.  Musically, it was a fascinating evening, even if the two warm-ups were both by modern composers and not what I would put in a masterworks series.

But other that the music?
Am I proud that I survived?
It doesn't feel like I have ... yet.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!