This is the start of my newest piece for Grit & Virtue. You can read the full article here–it’s one of my favorites that I’ve written!
My husband was at home with the baby and I was at the library when I experienced my first – and only – panic attack. It was Fall; the air outside was just beginning to thin and tumble, threading its way through newly-bare branches and alleyways. I remember that it was dark, painfully dark at 6 pm. I was tired.
I sat at one of the large tables in the reference section, my notes and books spread around me in a cluttered half-circle. I work best with large amounts of space and quiet, something nearly impossible to come by with a new baby. It was a gift to slip away to the quiet of the stacks and write the book I was working on; it was something I had missed, acutely, for months.
I don’t remember feeling particularly stressed or anxious, but I do remember the pattering in my chest that started like a whisper and progressed to cymbals. I couldn’t focus and had to turn off the computer. My breathing became narrow and superficial; I felt like I was falling down even as I straightened in my chair. The room started hovering like hummingbird wings, and I had to close my eyes and lay my cheek on the cool of the table. I wondered if I was having a heart attack or a stroke and if maybe this was how I would die, here in the quiet of the library.
[Spoiler alert–I’m still here! 🙂 You can read the rest of this piece at Grit & Virtue!]
