Nightlight

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
There was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I would shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

-Billy Collins, from “On Turning Ten”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my disorder, it’s that sometimes I need to physically retrace my steps after an attack. It’s like rising from the mud, and throwing your leg back over a nutmeg stallion, risking being flung once again. True, both horses and anxiety have minds of their own, but with the former there are reins, a bit. Of the two bodies involved, you have the most control. Anxiety, on the other hand, is a battle of wits between you and yourself; your logical mind and your nervous mind.

Behavioral/exposure therapy taught me that revisiting the scene of a panic attack is harrowing, but necessary to re-establish new, gentle roots with the location. Walking down the street sounds simple to begin with, right? How about walking down a street where you last felt ill? It’s like revisiting the scene of a crime, leering back at the chalk outline of a victim - as if their spirit still lingers in the air above, and their blood still seeps from the sidewalk. Such is the case with Panic Disorder: the moment, still vivid and thick in mid-August. Haunting.

Last week I decided to take a risk, march back down the street of my most recent panic attack, with hopes of germinating new seeds. It was late afternoon, and I smiled as I took strides past the ivy-clad townhouse and the ominous onyx school building, reaching Second Avenue successfully, and continuing to First. No sweat, I thought to myself as I paced towards my building.

But this Friday evening, two weeks after the actual incident, I was inundated with ramblings from my worrying mind. What if? What if? Perhaps it’s the time of day, the color of the sky, the unnerving middle ground between day and night, I thought. As I approached the crime scene, I began gasping for breath, as I knew I would, as I had done as well (but only momentarily) earlier in the week. Four townhouses down, I was beginning to lose touch with my surroundings, and felt myself slipping into fuzzy dream-mode.

I called them in a panic - he took the phone, and talked me through my walk, as he often did when I was younger. I kept him updated as to how far I’d traveled, when the lights were turning red, and back to green again. He listened, responded. I changed the pathway home a bit, walking down a busier street to shake things up, and remind myself that I could handle weaving in and out of the crowds and traffic. The visual and auditory stimulation was less violent than last time.

Arriving home, I trudged upstairs - disappointed in myself for trampling over the seeds I had sown.

I know I need to redevelop a relationship with a street and path I’ve always walked - that it’s crucial that I keep on rising, clapping the dirt from my hands, and hoisting myself upwards once again. I will continue to try.