COPING METHOD

(Photo by Mitchell Hollander)

I had a panic attack a couple days ago. And while I’ve calmed back down, the symptoms still linger. Uncomfortable warmth. Sweating. Shortness of breath. The perpetual feeling of being tipped over. There are psychological symptoms too, and those are often the worst to deal with. For me, it’s an endless inner dialogue swirling around the same central question: “Why do I keep letting my family down?”

I don’t know what happened. I was sitting at my desk in the bedroom, reading the requirements necessary to apply for a state job, a Marketing and Public Relations Associate, which included a cover letter, a resume, a statement of qualification – answering essay questions in two single-spaced pages with 12-point Arial font, the font of madmen and politicians – and yet another application form demanding every detail of your life since graduating high school. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Who could remember all that information anyway, even if it was about themselves? And what was I doing leaving my comfortable gig at Bokah? Wasn’t I supposed to focus on my writing anyway? Then I thought about my computer desktop inundated with unsubmitted poems. Then I thought about my fourth book and how I hadn’t really started that yet. Then I thought about my son’s autism, my wife’s weight, the new hives crawling up and down my arms… and I lost it.

I fell into bed, pulled the covers over me, and folded my arms as though placed in a coffin. Mandi let herself in after a while and found me lying there. She looked concerned as she slid into bed next to me. She didn’t say anything, just began rubbing my chest and face the way my mother had done to my father as he lay on his death bed.

“Can I get you anything?” she said, finally.

“Wine…” I muttered.

She left for the grocery store soon thereafter. Once I heard the front door slam, I could feel myself losing it again, and so I messaged Ms. Nasty, a friend from work. We had worked together for over eight years, and I often confided in her about my struggles with anxiety and post-traumatic stress.

“Make sure to keep breathing,” she messaged back.

“Trying to,” I said.

“Have I told you about grounding exercises?”

“You may have mentioned it before.”

“Find one thing you can see, one thing you can feel, one thing you can smell, one thing you can hear, and one thing you can taste.”

I lay there, thinking… Sunlight. Sweat. Litter box. Breathing. Saliva.

“That helps. Thanks.”

“You ought to get up and get your body moving. Go for a walk or something.”

“I don’t know. I’d rather sit on the couch and drink wine until I feel better.”

“That’s not the best coping method…” she said, “but I know it’s easy and a habit.”

She was right, of course.

I started drinking at the age of 20, the night I broke up with Amy, a 26 year-old nurse who lived in the apartment above mine. Her best friend had broken up with a long-term boyfriend who suddenly turned violent. And one night, as we lay together in bed, she told me she no longer trusted men. I didn’t take it well. I remember jumping out of bed, shouting, wagging my finger at her from the foot of the bed as she recoiled against the headrest. Though, I don’t remember what I said.

When I was finished, I left her bedroom and returned downstairs to my apartment. There were about two dozen people in there, drinking from red plastic cups. My roommates, Andy and Jason, were throwing a party. I found them in a small crowd in the kitchen taking shots of Southern Comfort, and I thought what the hell, life is meaningless, love is fleeting, I might as well give drinking a shot.

And it worked. Quickly.

Thirty minutes later, after four or five shots, I felt wonderful. I wasn’t thinking about Amy and what she had said. I no longer felt angry or depressed, just pure, unadulterated happiness as I stumbled back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, hugging complete strangers and singing at the top of my lungs.

I had my hangover to face, yes. And it was terrible, like a buzzsaw of light and sound. But the happiness lingered. It was then I realized I had stumbled upon something special, a cure, perhaps, for life’s utter grimness.

From that point on, drinking became my psychological salve, my “coping method” as Ms. Nasty had put it. But what she didn’t understand – and how could she? – was that I had been facing down the specter of Death every day since my first fainting episode at the coffee plant in 2011, and drinking was the only way I could conquer my fear. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to leave my bedroom most days. I wouldn’t be able to show up to work. I’d lose my job, our apartment, Alex’s health insurance, everything. I know this because it happened before.

Mandi arrived with a cheap bottle of Coppola Zin. I limped after her into the living room, found a corkscrew, and opened the bottle. I poured myself a glass and sat down on the couch. My son, Alex, was sitting on the other end, watching a cartoon about birds. And I sat there silently, sipping my wine, watching the cartoon birds flying and singing without a care in the world.

Four glasses later, I could feel my senses return to me. My thoughts slowed down, and I could finally understand them. I began talking to Mandi and Alex, joking with them, getting them snacks from the kitchen. It was as though the previous couple of hours never happened. But even then, in my momentary calm, I knew I would have to try again to make it through the state application process. My family needed more money, more flexibility to manage Alex’s therapy and special education and to help take care of Mandi’s mother who had been struggling with Alzheimer’s disease. I didn’t want to let them down. Never again.

So, Ms. Nasty, if I have to drink, I’m going to. A bottle of cheap wine is a worthy price to pay for my family’s well-being. But as always, I appreciate the care and concern.