Childhood panic attacks and Mrs Vallis.
I thought panic attacks were behind me but unfortunately the inconvenient bastards have returned.
Did you read in the news recently about Nate Byrne, an Australian weatherman who had a panic attack live on air? If you didn’t, he had a panic attack live on air.
For the uninitiated, a panic attack is “A brief episode of intense anxiety, which causes the physical sensations of fear. These can include a racing heartbeat, shortness of breath, dizziness, trembling and muscle tension. Panic attacks occur frequently and unexpectedly and are often not related to any external threat.” – Better Health
Rather selfishly, Nate’s experience prompted thoughts of my own anxiety. I’ve always been a bit of a basket case.* (No, I’m not suggesting Nate is a basket case.)
*For those sensitive souls triggered by certain words, it’s ok. I identify as a basket case so any attempt to police my language will be met with a ‘fuck off’.
As a child, I appeared fairly normal. Aside from the lazy eye and huge Deidre glasses, I was a typical product of the 1980s.
But in childhood, something unpleasant used to happen to me.
(No, not THAT unpleasant.)
I would abruptly wake from sleep and feel nauseous. I always managed to talk myself down and return to sleep but sometimes I’d have to venture downstairs, or sit on the loo—anything to calm down. These episodes weren’t always at night. Once Dad had to stop the car because I was having a meltdown in the back seat. This shit wasn’t happening every week but I do recall a particularly nasty incident on the way to Grans. Mum and Dad were forced to leave me with Mrs Vallis. She owned the bakery down the road from us. She got me to sit outside the shop and take deep breaths while she fetched a glass of water (but no cake, what a bitch). These episodes didn’t last longer than thirty minutes but they were terrifying.
In early September, Oxford plays host to St Giles’ Fair (an event that’s been happening for about 400 years, dontcha know). My brother and sister loved going but I hated it. On one occasion I had to return home because I couldn’t cope with the crowds. After that, I stayed home which made Mum feel bad so she would treat me to one of those fair dolls with the huge flouncy skirts.
What’s the causation, you’re wondering? (Or not.)
Perhaps when I finally get around to therapy, I’ll let you know but one thing might be my emetophobia (fear of vomiting). Ever since fat Carl threw up backstage I would be forever changed. It was just after the school nativity play and I distinctly remember the watery sick splashing up against my legs. Even now I can hear the vomit hitting the cork tiles. I know exactly how I felt—petrified.
However, I remain one of the finest Melchiors ever to grace Wood Farm First School’s stage.
The phobia continued through to adulthood.
I avoided drinking too much because of it. I’m one of the few people of my generation never to get wankered on Thunderbird. As my mid-forties approach, the fear has dulled. I can comfortably watch someone barf on TV (and I have no issue dealing with dog sick) but I still panic when I feel ill.
I think I’ve always had, what some call, a ‘nervous tummy’. When I’m stressed, digestive problems rear their head. In the past, I’ve struggled with IBS but since my late twenties, I had a new condition to keep me occupied—chronic dyspepsia. It was now the turn of my upper gut to wreak havoc. There’s nothing quite like a burning, gnawing sensation in your duodenum to keep you up at night. At one point it was so bad that I was ‘accused’ of being anorexic, I just couldn’t eat food without feeling sick.
And recently, I’ve been waking up gasping for air. I drop off to slumber land then BAM—where’s the fucking fire?!
(I did wake up to a real fire once. I thought, this is weird, why is it so foggy in here? Mum’s idiot partner left a joint of beef to thaw on top of the microwave.)
Through some digging, I found that this is my old friend: the nocturnal panic attack. Unlike night terrors, you completely wake from sleep wondering what the fucking hell is happening.
So yeah, that’s me, in a basket-case nutshell.
Are you also mental? Do tell…
