The first time I had a panic attack, I thought I was dying. Literally.
I was working in the Motor Tax section of Donegal County Council and I’d just locked myself in a small cubicle of the men’s toilet, afraid of what was happening. After an hour or so I shakily ventured out. I told my boss I had to leave. I was sick, very sick. Unfortunately I had no car and the office was in Lifford. I sat, curled up in the back of Garvan McCloskey’s old Datsun Cherry, my daily lift from Letterkenny, for the rest of the day, awaiting my demise, and a lift back home.
The trigger of my first attack actually happened 3 years earlier. I was at home in Carrick and had just received a letter from Margaret telling me that she was pregnant. My throat narrowed reading that letter. I was 20 years old, neither of us worked. It was the recession of the early 80’s. Unlike what we’ve been through since the drowning of the Celtic Tiger, back then we knew no better, there was no work and sadly little hope for the future. I knew straight away what I wanted to do but had no idea how I’d be there for the woman I loved. My paternal instinct kicked in and my throat narrowed even more.

The Motor Tax office was an awful place to work.
We spent alternate weeks on the public counter. Long queues, up to fifty people, out the door and down the hall, in silence, waiting to part, unwillingly from their hard earned money. The rules governing Motor Tax then, although understandable to us, were deemed totally unreasonable to the public. If you travelled from Glencolmcille to Lifford, a round trip of more than 100 miles, and had forgotten to have your application signed at the local Garda station, yes, the local Garda station back in Glencolmcille, then your application was refused and you were sent on your not so merry way. The argument that pursued on informing the applicant of this detail turned the, up to now, quiet and shuffling queue, into one where ears were pricked up and applications were rechecked. They were all on edge now.
On a normal day you’d ‘fall out’ with half a dozen unroadworthy citizens. It was a stressful days work. One of my colleagues and good friends Sylvester Maguire knew how to handle the stress and had on more than one occasion ‘cleared’ the counter and chased same said citizens out of the office. Unfortunately that was not my style. I held the stress in. Unwittingly, I bottled it up.
Then one day that ‘bottle’ cracked.

My heart pounded loudly and threatened to burst. A heart attack was on the way without doubt. My head hurt so bad I couldn’t think straight. My throat narrowed, unable to swallow. I was made dizzy by legs reluctant to stand by me, with hands shaking uncontrollably, I certainly couldn’t work. I was fucked or at least on the way to being. I took the next few days off. The doctor diagnosed the all-clear, much to my dismay. Over the next few months I came to accept I was suffering from anxiety and my panic attacks became more frequent. They always started with the inability to swallow. I developed an intensively sensitive gag reflex. The attacks were out of my control. I lay down and closed my eyes but my head went into a spin. The tightening of my chest no longer led to fears of imminent death but I had to work through each attack. Constantly drinking water to help me swallow, breathing deeply, waiting for the attack to pass. This went on for years. It became my silent partner, hiding in the dark, ready to pounce when least expected. At the first thought of an upcoming event, regardless of the importance, the dryness in my throat grew. It was only a matter of time.

Then one night watching The Late Late Show in the late 80’s when Gay Byrne was still at it’s helm, without warning, I was suddenly cured.

Gay introduced Dr.Claire Weekes, a famous Australian psychologist. She was a small frail woman. I was, as normal, paying little attention to the show until the discussion came around to panic attacks. Gay asked her what exactly a panic attack was ? I perked up. This was me. This was something I could relate to. She described it as an energy, an electrical energy, running through the body. As it builds, it consumes the body seeking a way out. In one sentence she cured me as she said ” Let this energy flow, imagine it is travelling through your body and let it escape out through your head” With that, I understood how to deal with this. Like a scene from a sci-fi movie I imagined this light beam erupting from my head as the energy escaped. Amazingly, I have never had a full blown attack since. When it threatened, I remembered her words and let it flow from me.
I still suffer a bad gag reflex which affects me in the most mundane ways, simply swallowing tablets or visiting the dentist early in the morning. For some reason it eases as the day goes on. I still have to control this with breathing and believing it’s not going to harm me in the confidence I can now control it.

Panic attacks are very real. I’d hate anyone to think it’s all in the mind. They effect the sufferer in a way every bit as frightening as any serious physical illness. Unfortunately not all sufferers learn to control their attacks. I was lucky. An amazing woman Dr. Weekes affected my life and I am forever grateful