Under Pressure: The Private Humiliation of Panic Attacks

Every few days, I catch myself saying “Spring is finally here."

Then Wisconsin dumps a foot and a half of snow on us overnight.

Five days later, it's T-shirt weather.

We do not take the good days for granted up here. On the bad ones, I remind myself I moved here for love, not the seasons.

But I’m still California dreamin’.

Last weekend, during one of those rare days of decent weather, my husband surprised me with an overnight getaway. Just the two of us, which almost never happens.

The hotel felt tailor-made for me: elegant but with a hard-rock edge. There was 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 having a full-blown panic attack.

And all I could think was goddamnit. Not again.

I’d been doing so well.

That's what sucks the most: you go long enough without an incident, and you start believing you're past it all. Then something insignificant happens, and you're trembling in the ladies' room and never want to come out.

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 sat on the bed in his T-shirt, taking tiny sips of Sprite, trying not to throw up while the smell of his food filled the room.

That was our night.

Not exactly the romantic getaway we'd pictured.