Earlier this week, I had a sudden,  debilitating panic attack after a summons to be a Grand Jury juror in my rural county, Washington County, N.Y. I was surprised by the attack, I rarely have such attacks any longer, and this one seemed to come out of nowhere.

The summons was for this morning, Thursday, January 2. I was ordered to appear at our small and accessible court complex in the village of Fort Edward, N.Y., the sight of some conflicts both with the British and some Native American tribes.

I had an intense response to the summons.

My county is a jewel; it is both beautiful and people-friendly. Six people in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles is a long line up here, and the staff is warm and friendly. Everybody asks where you are from and how you are.

Washington County is not paradise. But it is most often very nice.

The county court and office complex are about 45 minutes away; there is plenty of parking right next door to the court buildings.

We waited outside in a line for about 10 minutes and were then searched and wanded inside. The people in line were courteous and helpful to one another.

I’ve been called to juror duty several times in my life, been happy to go, and found the experience exciting and vital. I’ve never been afraid of it or run from it.  Nothing terrible has ever happened to me on jury duty.

I do little enough as a citizen; I am happy to do my duty. If I am called to jury duty, my county is as good a place to go as I could find. There are a few severe crimes where I live. Juries don’t deliberate long or that often.

I realized pretty quickly that the attack – light-headedness, sweating nausea, fatigue, disorientation, and of course, panic  – had nothing to do with the Grand Juror Summons. When you are in a panic attack, you believe it; the real world recedes, there is nothing but fear and disorientation. You learn to find someone or something that brings you back.

By now, there is a voice inside of me that says, “this isn’t real; this is an old thing; there is nothing to be panicked about.” If you have done some work and gotten some help, you know what to do.

I don’t care for people who are always telling other people how much they suffered; it seems self-serving to me, and useless to others. I don’t need pity; pain is unavoidable, suffering is a choice. I do feel for people who have panic attacks, especially those who have never gotten help. They are awful.

I have come to believe that people who have experienced mental illness – especially people who are seen by others to be successful and influential – need to come out into the light and acknowledge their illnesses. We don’t need to spill our guts all over the place, but it helps others to know they are not nearly alone. That help helps.

It is essential to share what we have learned. About a third of all Americans suffer from one form of mental illness or another, from anxiety disorders to depression to ADD. There is no shame in it, and there is lots of help, some of it entirely new.

Nothing has been more helpful for me than to share what I have learned and be open about it.

And I’ve learned what to do when I have an attack like this – I start deconstructing the attack right away. I ask myself, “where is this coming from, what it is about?” I try to understand what is happening.  As soon as I can, I call someone who knows that I am out of reality and need to be brought back.

Panic attacks are rarely about the things happening now; they usually come from the past.

The good thing about panic attacks for me is that once I took the time to learn about them, I can self-treat and get out of them. I don’t need anything but my mind and will.

Panic attacks are intensely physical; it’s almost as if the body goes into shock. The aftereffects can last a while.

Most often, I have them at night, when a lot of my trauma occurred. But the Grand Jury summons triggered some old horrors, especially the idea of being forced to do something against your will, at someone else’s command or control.

It recreated something inside of me, not something in front of me. And I know what it is, although some of the trauma is in the shadows.

A jury summons is an act of citizenship, but it also requires surrendering one’s power, something that triggers intense emotions in me, something that is very frightening. That feeling came to me earlier in the week after the summons.

I had savage and frequent panic attacks when I was a child, like a bed-wetting, they are often an indicator of abuse or trauma, but I didn’t know that until much later. My father tried to tell me by convincing me I was weak – “a sissy” – and he was successful. I was terrified of gym class, polio shots, tests of any kind, the taunting on the schoolyard.

I often hid in the bushes or walked for hours instead of going to school. If anyone noticed, no one said anything to me about it. I think my parents had no idea what to do about me. I even hid these attacks from my sister, with whom I was close.

I ran away from school when vaccines were being given out when I had gym classes when there were tests I was afraid of taking when I’d had a bladder accident when I was being bullied.

I remember, at some point, telling a doctor what was happening to me, secretly hoping for help. He listened, but then just shook his head and gave me some crayons to draw with.

Nobody wanted to talk about things like that in my world at the time.  They were taboo.  It wasn’t until I sought professional help that I could talk to anyone about these attacks, and I was well into my 30’s by then.

I lived in a cloud of fear, usually running away or hiding, or peeing myself in class or the schoolyard. The panic attacks continued, growing more savage as I advanced through the media world.

My problem was that I was smart enough to get hired for good jobs all my life and to write books, but I was too damaged and ill to stay anywhere for long. I usually fled after a year or so, or stormed out in some outrage, and learned to hide my panic attacks behind closed doors, both at work and home.

I quit more than a dozen jobs and was hired more than a dozen times.

I see now that I was not well. I also know that I managed to hide it from everyone, including my second family, my wife, and my daughter in my first marriage.

So I had a  sense this week that the attack was coming from somewhere old, somewhere deep. Yes, as is obvious,  I did suffer sexual and other kinds of abuse as I child, including being forced to go to places I didn’t wish to go to and knew were dangerous.

Somehow, the summons recreated it. Something I was ordered to do, something I had no choice but to do, something I urgently wanted to run from. I tried calling the juror line for people who wanted to change their dates, but I couldn’t get through. That was the point; I knew I had to go, to get myself back.

I called Maria and told her what was happening. I told her I needed to go and wanted to go. I knew it was a panic attack. I took a long walk with Zinnia, and it grounded me and brought me back. She is a therapy dog, after all. Get to work, I told, and soon enough, I was laughing at her antics.

After the walk, I sat down with Maria and got some reinforcement and support. What a difference that makes. Until Maria, I never trusted anyone with my panic attacks; now, I have an excellent place to go. But that place is me, then her. It is critical that I come out of myself now, that I come to see this isn’t my real life, this isn’t me anymore.

It is also essential to tell people when I have a panic attack.  As a writer with these blogs, I have a valuable tool to communicate with. I love taking pictures of beautiful dogs, but the blog is much more than that now. The blog can be a force for good.

That is a good thing. It turns all of the darkness into light. It gives it meaning beyond me and my one insignificant life.

Those attacks are most often not grounded in reality, and talking to a person helps to bring me back.

My mind knows the panic is not about now, but it takes time for the body to catch up. I get bewildered and confused during, and after panic attacks, nothing is seriously wrong with me, but it feels like I’ve gone mad. And I’m not made, just ill sometimes.

People told me they were sorry when I had open heart surgery. Not to many people tell me they are sorry that I suffer from mental illness.  I don’t do that either. A lot of people do thank me for writing about it.

Fear is a legitimate, even useful emotion to have in life. It can be quite healthy, as in taking cover in a lightning storm or tornado, or not drinking while driving.

People who take shelter in storms or avoid driving on ice are not mentally ill.

Panic attacks are a terrifying symptom of an anxiety disorder; they are a disorder. Fortunately, they are one of the most treatable diseases.

They are the opposite of reality; they are dangerous and treatable.

They don’t mean people are crazy, or that there is something wrong with them; there is no shame in having a panic attack, which is why I write about them.

I hid them and denied them for years, which only make things much worse. Often, I’d hide in an office and close the door and cry. Nobody outside had any idea what was happening.

There is a lot of useful information about panic attacks online. A panic attack is very similar to a heart attack in some ways, and I’ve had both,  which is why it took me a long time to realize I had heart disease.

I like the Mayo Clinic’s definition:

“A panic attack is a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers severe physical reactions when there is no real danger or apparent cause. Panic attacks can be very frightening. When panic attacks occur, you might think you’re losing control, having a heart attack or even dying.”

This week, I applied what I learned. I meditated, went for walks with my dogs, talked to Maria, and of course, wrote about them today. I went from feeling as if I were dying to getting excited about my life again, about my new family, my work, my pictures, my dogs and animals, my daughter and granddaughter. And about the Army Of Good, the Mansion, Bishop Maginn High School.

I have so much to feel good about. When I have a panic attack, those things all vanish, they melt away into the fog of fear. I am grateful for the chance to recover and seem my life anew, every time. Always, there are happy endings for me; I come back to life. I am so lucky in that way.

This morning, I went to my Grand Jury appointment, on the way I took several wrong turns (on a route I’ve driven regularly for 15 years) and realized I was experiencing the aftershock of my panic attack. Nothing looked familiar; I suddenly wasn’t sure where I was.

I pulled over, drank some water, walked around the car. I stopped to get coffee; I didn’t call anyone, I knew I could handle it, I felt better, secure, and clear after that. I put the courthouse address into my Google Maps app just for insurance and took some deep breaths. GPS made me feel more secure. I knew I would get there. I did get there and early.

Images from my childhood kept popping up in my head. I saw clearly where this was coming from. They weren’t pleasant memories. Still, I was shivering and trembling and sweating.

I drove to the county courthouse, waited in line, and remained in a room with about 100 other people, some called for regular jury duty, some for the Grand Jury. Once I was there, I settled down, the panic left me, I felt my heart racing a bit, but I was calming down. I no longer had anything to fear.

I was there.

The Commissioner of Jurors, a kind and thoughtful man,  came into the room and explained that the Grand Jury would be meeting for 13 weeks, for much of the day every Thursday. He said he would rather know upfront if there were reasons people couldn’t come rather than send the Sheriff out to find them if they didn’t or couldn’t show up.

My county is like that. They understand life.

The commissioner asked for the people who might have problems with such a commitment to come up and talk to him in his office. I was second in line. I told him I was happy to be there, very willing to serve on a jury, but 13 weeks did raise some issues for me.

I told him I had heart disease and diabetes and saw doctors regularly; the appointments were usually made months in advance and were difficult to cancel. My doctors told me to come and see them immediately if my heart acted strongly, or I felt ill in any way.

If something happened, I would have to leave the Grand Jury room and get help.  Sometimes –  not often – the medications I’m on could make me tired, I didn’t want to fall asleep in a Grand Jury room. I was sorry, I said, I wanted to do my part. I appreciate my country.

The commissioner was gracious and understanding. Of course, he said, don’t worry about it,  you are excused.

Going home, I called Maria and told her what happened, including my trouble getting to Fort Edwards. I told her I was back to normal, a little shaky, but getting back to myself.

I felt guilty about not serving, but it would be unwise to commit to so many weeks.

I am grateful for every panic attack; I learn something from each one, I get stronger each time I come out the other side, each time I survive.

I am lucky that panic attacks are my anxiety disorder. I get to recover every time.