Depression, Panic Attacks and Why We Didn’t Talk About Them

Panic Attacks: The Beginning

I am 62 years old and I have never talked about this before to anyone except my family and even they don’t know everything about what I am about to tell you.

When I was a little girl, about 10 years old, I had my first panic attack. It would be decades before I knew that what was happening to me had a name. At the time I just thought I was about to die.

I was in church and it felt something crawledup the back of my neck, only there was nothing there. Then I experienced shortness of breath and a strange out of body experience. It felt like I was watching what was happening to me. The experience left me feeling shaken and drained. I didn’t tell my mother because I didn’t have the words to describe it. All I said was “I don’t feel well.”

My panic attacks happened a lot at night and I would end up in my mother’s bed: shaking and my heart pounding, too scared to sleep alone.

The 70s

During my high school years it happened again a few more times and each time it felt like it got worse. I knew I was experiencing depression along with the panic attacks but I still didn’t talk about it. I attended a very small high school and I already felt out of place. I was taller than almost everyone and even though my parents weren’t wealthy by a long shot, most kids thought we were. They whispered about me and of course it got back to me. Except for my small circle of friends most people thought I was “stuck up.” Little did they know I was quiet because I was extremely insecure and painfully shy. There words hurt. At a time when I desperately wanted to be as popular as my cheerleader friends, I felt like a space alien. Tall, goofy and never knowing the right thing to say. While my verbal skills were lacking I loved the written word. I might not have been confident talking to people but I was comfortable reading and writing. I loved Rod McKuen and read Kahil Gibran’s the Prophet many, many times. I wrote poetry and short stories. It was the beginning of a life long love affair with words.

Over the years I developed a fear of heights and bridges and both became triggers for the nightmare feeling that came over me and took control. Somehow I managed to cope, get married, raise a family and still no one knew about my fears and anxiety attacks except my husband. Once we were on a trip and we came to a bridge that was high above the water. I happened to be driving. When I saw the bridge and realized that it would probably bring on a panic attack I whipped the car over a couple of lanes (even though cars were swarming around me) jumped out and told my husband he had to drive. We were lucky I didn’t kill us both with that last minute decision.

The 90s

I lost both my parents within 5 years. My mother died in 1990 of cancer and in 1995 my dad had a fatal heart attack. I became the main care giver for my elderly grandmother and stayed busy raising our 5 children. There were lots of happy days and good times but always in the background of those golden moments was a big black cloud of depression and anxiety that followed me around, just waiting to dump bucket fulls of rain on me.

Strangely enough it wasn’t my parent’s deaths that sent me running for help. It was something else. I’ve never been to a therapist or psychiatrist but I began to think about my family history.

My mother suffered from severe depression but it wasn’t talked about it my family. I knew she took medication for it and I knew that most of the time she was unhappy but that’s all I knew. Her father, my grandfather, suffered from it too. Again, no one ever talked about it and to my knowledge he didn’t take medicine for it but I knew. Not when he was alive, but later looking back I could see clearly that after his heart attack when he was too weak to do much of anything but sit around and smoke cigarettes, that his bitterness and sadness were symptoms of a much bigger problem.

Our children were growing up and leaving home and when it came time for our only daughter to go to college something inside me cracked. It was the shell that I had built around my heart to keep me going. I wanted to be happy about her leaving but I wasn’t. I put on a good show. Took her shopping, helped her get ready and dropped her off without letting her know that inside I was crumbling.

I wanted her to go, I really did, but the depression and sadness threatened to suck me down into a deep, dark hole. One day I went to the grocery and saw a display of Mountain Dew (her favorite drink) and I had to get my purse, leave my cart and go. I tried to understand what was happening to me and what I realized was it felt like another female figure that I loved and adored was leaving me. That doesn’t make sense, I’d say to myself. Momma died. She’s just going to college. But it didn’t matter. There was a hole in my life that I couldn’t fill. I was careful not to let her know because I wanted her to be happy even if I couldn’t be.

It would be many years before I told her about what happened when she went away to college.

Why Now?

When the depression squashed me like a 200 pound boulder on my shoulders I finally talked to a doctor. He listened and gave me a mild anti-depressant. It took two or three tries before something worked but it finally did. The panic attacks have lessened too. About the only time I have them know is if I have to fly. I talked to my doctor about that as well and before I get on a plane I take a pill. I still don’t like flying….but I can do it.

Why should I share this with you now? Today we are much more accepting of people with depression, anxiety and panic attacks but back in the day, not so much. My grandfather never talked about his emotions or feelings but I figured out that he was severely depressed by going through my memories and sorting through them like laundry. His stack of dark clothes (thoughts and actions) was much, much bigger than his whites (happy thoughts). My mother and I were extremely close in her later years and I saw her depression and even went with her to the doctor a couple of times. But again, we never talked about it. That’s just the way it was.

I’m not a doctor but I do believe that depression and anxiety can be in our genetic make up. I want my children and grandchildren to know that it is okay to talk about our feelings and if you feel sad constantly….that’s not normal. You need to talk to someone and get help.

I also believe that everyone reacts different to trauma and stress. When my panic attacks started my parents were fighting….a lot. I remember every fight. Every harsh word that I heard. I think I internalized it because I didn’t know what else to do. I am probably not the only child that has ever done that.

We all have problems and things we deal with that we don’t talk about. It’s too hard. Too painful. But I hope that by sharing my story you will see that it’s okay to reach out for help. I wish I hadn’t waited until my daughter went to college to ask my doctor for help. I might have been a better mother, sister, and friend if I hadn’t let my pride keep me from admitting something was wrong.

I also have to add that I know without a doubt that God was with me during everything I have ever struggled with. There were times I walked away from Him, but He never walked away from me. Over the years as my faith has strengthened I have felt his presence and talked to Him about everything. Faith is like a raft on the raging river of life and I cling to it daily.

Thanks for listening friends. I hope by sharing I can help someone else whose family never talked about feelings and emotions. If your family doesn’t, don’t wait any longer. Get the conversation started!“

Resources: http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/depression-support-and-advocacy https://www.webmd.com/depression/guide/depression_support_resources