In one sense, having a panic attack is like having a fight with someone you love, once the dust settles, it is a beautiful thing to kiss and make up and move on. Pain is inevitable, suffering is a choice.

It is indelicate, but I think of a panic attack as being similar to the flushing of a toilet, or taking the trash to the dump. You get rid of stuff you don’t need any longer.

Today, I feel my strength returning, my confidence, my need for color and light, for making love, for expressing myself through writing and photography, for getting on with life.

My phone rang just after sunrise this morning, it was my sister calling, she had just read my post on my panic attack, and she was in tears, feeling great sadness for me, for her.

Jane and I have a special kind of relationship. In the context of family, we are each all the other has left.

We rarely see one another and talk occasionally, but it always seems like we talk all the time. I guess in some ways we do. No need to catch up.  She left the ordinary world behind, as I did, and lives contentedly with her dogs and good friends in one of the most remote parts of New York State.

I tried to help her when we were children, she has always tried to help me, talking me through the worst time of my life every night and day for months.  We feel one another’s pain, we know one another’s pain.

I do not think I would have made it through the worst time without her.

She and I grew up holding on to one another, witnesses to the devastation and pain of our childhoods. Our brother has always hidden from what happened to us, he has never wanted to know about it. We cannot solve our distance from him, or his denial,  I’ve tried a hundred times.

Jane does not throw compliments around, but she said my panic attack/bed wetting post was the best thing I ever wrote. People often say that about something I’ve written that they liked the best. It was meaningful for her to say that.

It is good to talk to someone who was there, we saw what happened to one another, we know what it has taken for both of us to walk through it and into our lives. It is affirming and reminds me that while I might be crazy, I am not crazy about why.

I have had panic attacks – panic disorder they call it – all of my life, and I think that even when I am in the worst of them, I always know on some level that I will come out the other side. I always have.

You just have to close your eyes and wait it out. The body and the mind do not care to be so distressed for too long.

The first casualty of panic is a reality, the second is hope. I know I am recovering when hope returns.

This is how I feel about fear – it is, after all, a feeling, not a stone, it is ultimately just a space to cross.

The same can be said of a panic attack. It was good to talk to my sister, both healing and emotional, she understands the pain in a way few of us ever will or do. She is very strong and very brave. She is also brutally honest with herself and with other people.

I told Maria I needed to take photos of some beautiful things today, we went out into the garden in search of some flowers.  Color and light is healing, being loved is healing, having dear friends is healing.

The first e-mail I got was from a friend, it said this:

“Good morning Jon. I’m so sorry you had such a rough day yesterday. What courage you have to use your pain to help so many others who suffer in silence. Thank God you have Maria, she loves you with all her heart and you her. Be easy with yourself for as long as it takes… You are one of the best people I have ever met and it makes me sad to hear that you are going through a rough patch. Panic is a terrible thing, as real as the ground beneath your feet. The past comes so often to bite us when we least expect it too. This day just know that you are loved and appreciated… You change the world one small step at a time. That must be a great weight to carry now and then. Take care of Jon today

That was a special way to start the day, I gave thanks for having a generous friend like that. I almost cried when I read the message, and while I don’t deserve that, it was good to read it.

Cathy sent me this message, a quote from Don Miguel Ruiz: “Unlearning lies is not easy because we feel safe with our lies: we are very attached to them.”

This being the Internet, Fred wrote to me and assumed that the bulk of my panic disorder treatment was Freudian analysis (it was not) and had other ideas about my treatment:

“…I noticed that the treatment you received was basically Freudian psychoanalysis.  I’m not sure that’s true but, in case I’m right, I’d encourage you to seek alternative therapy from a good cognitive-behavioral therapist (not a psychiatrist who will try to drug the panic out of you).  All the literature supports the conclusion that CBT is the best treatment for anxiety and panic disorders.”

I thank Fred for caring and I told him I don’t discuss my therapy on the Internet with people I don’t know (or do know.) In fact, the bulk of my 30 years of treatment was talking therapy from social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, shamans,  and spiritual counselors.

None tried to drug the panic out of me, some did help me sleep. My treatments helped me tremendously and paved the way for me to live a normal and meaningful life. Help helps.

My friend Thomas Toscano wrote suggested I be nicer to myself: “Suggestion: What if you were nice, kind to yourself each day every day without fail. What if you allow nothing to take you away from being nice to yourself.”

An interesting idea, I think I can be gentle with myself sometimes, but I don’t think it’s in me to be nice every day. It isn’t me, and to be honest, I don’t think I would even like me if I was nice to me every day.

I believe panic attacks are essentially about lying – lies that I believed or was told about myself – that I wet the bed and was abused because I was weak or damaged.  I am very attached to my lies, I grew up with them, they have always been with me when I was alone.

But I get to recover every day from my illness if I have the will and the courage.  I will not let anyone break me in this way, the very same thing my sister said to me years ago.

That is the good part of a panic attack. It feels so much better to get over one, it is easier to appreciate life.

We got into the car and went to the farmer’s market, where we go every Sunday. I took some photos, and I saw that the flower lady had returned to the market.

I bought Maria some flowers. We ran into our friend Athena, and I brought her some flowers to celebrate the music she sang in town last week. I bought myself some flowers because they were so beautiful. I wanted to buy everyone some flowers.

Maria was shocked and said she didn’t deserve them.

Of course, she said that. We belong together.

My panic attack and my talk with my sister was painful for her, she was in tears for a while. I wish I didn’t cause her that pain. There is enough pain around all of this, I hate the idea that it can spread to other people. Pain is a cancer, in away.

I saw Barry Hyman, the talented son of the late writer Shirley Jackson, playing his guitar, teaching one of his students on the edge of the market.

We bought some fresh raspberries, and some basked lasagna and some babaganoush.

We invited some friends over, and I’m cooking one of my specialty dishes: light Spetzel from Vermont mixed with zucchini, broccoli, and kale, mixed with fresh cheese and pesto. I’ll be okay by then.

As the afternoon wore on, I felt stronger, Maria felt worse. She sometimes takes in all the pain in the world.  We talked, and then we did what we do. I went to my office to write about it, she went to her studio to make some art. This afternoon, we’ll record a podcast.

This is what we do, this is how we heal, this is how we survive, recover and drink some joy from life’s well. I am nothing but lucky.