Anxiety

The first attack was the worst.

It came without warning, somewhere between the rooftop hot tub and the living room. Somewhere between the lines of coke and the 30th or 40th cigarette. Somewhere between the red wine and the two girls waiting for me in the living room.

It had all the signs of a heart attack: shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat (like just sprinted 100m fast), tingling in the extremities and instant sweat. Having just sat down on the couch, the overwhelming sense of fear shot me right back to my feet and out the door, ignoring the girls' queries as to where I was going. I needed to get out of there. I made a beeline for my room, ditched the towel and got dressed. If I was going to die, it couldn't be at my own house party. And please God, anything but a drug overdose. My family would be mortified.

I don't remember whether it was hot or cold outside. Winter or Summer? Couldn't tell you. All I remember is wandering around an unusually silent Whistler Village, heart pounding in my chest. I headed straight for the clinic: CLOSED.

"I can't call 911," I remember thinking to myself. "I'm stoned out of my mind."

And so I walked. And walked fast. And cried. And prayed to a God to whom I'd been silent for a very long time.

"God, I swear I'll never touch that shit again," I pleaded, making what was probably the most genuine promise of my life.

It's amazing what goes through your mind when you're not sure if your heart is about to explode. For some reason, it was my younger brother Cam that came to mind. Seven years apart, I'd never really been around enough to be much of a big brother. Sure, we'd played mini sticks in the basement and I used to throw him around in the pool, but he had no idea who I was. "He's going to be the kid at youth group who's older brother died of a fucking overdose," I thought, disgusted with myself. I need to write him a letter.

What that letter said, I am not sure. I returned to an empty apartment - the party had since ended - and crawled into bed, my heart rate a little closer to normal. With shaky hands I chicken-scratched something or other about not being around enough and asking for forgiveness for how I was convinced I would be found in the morning. I'm sure there was much more I was planning to say, but I passed out before I could put it to paper.

In the end, my heart never exploded, although it very well should have. Rather, I'd had my first panic attack. For a solid year following that horrific event, I wrestled with my mind every time the sun went down. A flutter of the heart or pain in my arm would awaken a terror in me so grandiose that most nights I fell asleep with an Ativan tucked into a dry spot under my tongue. During that time, I refused to sleep in my room, choosing instead the couch, the same CD playing night after night: tried, tested and true things that somehow, and for no good reason, just narrowly kept the monster at bay.

For those of us who tend to repeatedly put our hands in the fire, fear can be a wonderful motivator. It's been over a decade now since that night, and a decade since I've touched drugs (the illegal ones, anyway). Once in a while, I can feel the monster's presence, lurking at the strangest times. The other night it passed while I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. It's how I imagine it might feel brushing shoulders with a ghost.

And as much as I hate it. As uncomfortable as it might get. It acts as a reminder. A reminder of the terror that could be. A reminder that life is fragile. That the mind is fragile. That no matter how much I can bench press or how hard I can punch, I can be rendered useless in the blink of an eye, with one simple, random surge of adrenaline.

And if my heart should explode one night, then ultimately I was warned. The promises made, the important things that come to mind when you feel it may just be your last moment on earth, the things so quickly forgotten when the sun rises and lights up your room, inviting you to live another day, those are the things that should and need to be done. There are letters to be written and people to visit and places to see. I suspect that should we do the things we promise we will and avoid the things we promise to avoid in a moment of panic, then truthfully what would we have to fear? Dying, perhaps. But not death.

"Reach for the sky, because tomorrow may never come."

A Long Way from Home...

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