Oh God, Not Again: Living With Panic Attacks

Every few days, I catch myself saying, “Spring is finally here," right before Wisconsin dumps a foot and a half of snow on us overnight.

Five days later, it's T-shirt weather again, so we do not take the good days for granted up here. I constantly remind myself I moved here for love, not the seasons.

But I’m still California dreamin’.

Last weekend, during one of those rare stretches of decent weather, my husband surprised me with an overnight getaway. Just the two of us, which rarely happens.

The hotel felt tailor-made for us: elegant with a hard-rock edge. We had a bathtub big enough to swim in and a shower with so many sprays it felt like a human car wash.

Dinner was at this quiet, unique little restaurant steeped in history. Calm atmosphere, great table, no kids…everything exactly how it should be.

Before we could even order appetizers, I was already having a full-blown panic attack.

And all I could think was, Oh God, not again.

I’d been doing so well, and that's what sucks the most: you go long enough to start believing you're over it. Then something insignificant happens, and you're heaving in the ladies' room.

Sometimes it isn't even something that happens, but if I think about what could happen. I get so worried about ruining a special evening that I end up...ruining the special evening.

My husband, God love him, is incredibly patient. That should make me feel better, but it just makes me feel guilty.

Within half an hour, I was hyperventilating in the bathroom while he quickly and quietly had our dinners packed to go.

Back at the hotel, I was sitting on the bed in his T-shirt, carefully sipping Sprite and trying not to throw up from the smell of my husband's dinner as he ate at the desk across the room.

Not exactly the romantic tryst we had in mind.