The Synchronicities of Panic

Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.
Beige. Green. Blue. White.

Four tangible things.

I was taught this fifteen years ago, and somehow I have carried it everywhere since. When panic comes, look outward. Name what is real. Give the mind something it cannot argue with.

A roof is a roof. A tree is a tree. The sky is blue.

Start there.

Inhale slowly. Exhale longer.

Again.

Panic is strange because even when you know exactly what it is, your body does not care.

My mind says, I know this feeling.

My body takes longer to trust me.

So I pull over.

I park beneath a tree, lean the seat back, and wait. Because that is what you do. You wait for your body to catch up with what your mind already knows.

You are okay.
You are okay.
You are okay.

And then panic does this other strange thing to me.

It takes me backward. Not to one particular day, but to that old maternal terror of loving something I cannot control.

That fear.

The one that says, fix it, fix it, fix it, even when there is nothing you can fix in that exact second.

It makes me younger somehow.

Not in years.
In fear.

So I do not follow it there.

Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.

Come back.

There is a bird in the tree above me. I watch it flap its wings, chirp, move from one branch to another. Its entire purpose, for that moment, is exactly that.

And I envy it.

Not because it is free.

Because it is only where it is.

No yesterday. No next thing. No inventory of everything that could go wrong.

Just branch.
Wing.
Sound.
Gone.

Birds are fleeting that way.

Maybe that is why I notice them when I am afraid. They arrive without explanation and leave before I can ask anything of them.

And for a second, I follow that instead.

My breathing gets better. I can feel myself coming back into my body.

And then I cry.

Not because I am more afraid.

Because I am not.

Because sometimes after all that fear, there is nowhere for it to go except out.

So I let it.

I write this down quickly because later I know what I will do. I will be fine. I will get up. I will drive. I will go do whatever comes next.

And I will say, I had a panic attack, as though those four words could possibly explain what it felt like while I was inside it.

So I write it now.

Before I make it smaller.
Before I forget the fear.
Before I forget the relief.

The tree.
The breath.
The bird.

Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.

Come back.

The bird lifts from the branch.

And I do too.