Even though I am grown up, I still am plenty afraid, and that is never more apparent than when it is dark and I am in bed.  It has gotten so bad over the past couple years that I started having panic attacks.  I wake up during the night and my heart is beating so hard that in my half asleep mind, I am sure that it is an earthquake.  I have been shook from sleep by real earthquakes in the past and I think that is why I tend to make this initial mistake.  After a few minutes of lying as still as possible, my chest pressed into the mattress and all my muscles tensed, I wake up enough to recognize that the tremors are my heart beating wildly.  I also have panic attacks while I’m awake, but the ones at night, the ones that wake me up, are worse.  At least during the day, I have a sense of what might have triggered them.  The ones that come at night come from someplace inside, someplace dark, and keeping my back against the wall does nothing to protect me.

Thanksgiving of 2000 was especially bad.  I spent an entire day in bed crying, with Eric lying beside me trying to understand what could be wrong, trying to help me, but me not being able to explain.  I had just turned 34, but it wasn’t the thought of getting older that bothered me.  My family was far away and I missed them, but that wasn’t anything new.  I hadn’t felt happy or relaxed in a really long time and I wasn’t exactly sure why.  The worst thing was that I didn’t have any hope that it would get better.  I needed to go to a therapist and get help.  For a long time, I had been turning down opportunities and avoiding experiences, giving up things I wanted, out of fear and a sense of utter despair.  It was only getting worse and I had lost hope that I could fix it.