I suppose as a writer, you might expect me to provide some free-flowing eloquence on the effects of anxiety attacks, but I’m not going to do that, and over-thinking what I write will probably only induce another bout. Anyway, an anxiety attack, or mine at least, is a bit like being booted in the chest. Or the throat. Or the stomach. Anywhere below the chin, really. Everything above the chin works just fine during an anxiety attack, the brain rarely receiving such a vigorous workout, as it repeatedly informs you that the sky is about to fall in.*
Your ears are working pretty well, too; a hamster fart sounds like someone ringing the Liberty Bell and the sound of your name at a volume upwards of half-a-decibel sends you rushing for cover, but its hard to rush anywhere when paralysed by whatever that paralysis is.
The senses are ramped up to superhero-like levels, but your memory forgets absolutely everything, except that you’re having an anxiety attack. It always remembers that.
Normally, I can remember the last 25 Grand National winners, (and jockeys), but during an attack I can’t even remember what a horse is.
It’s a bit like a storm. (As a Yorkshireman I’m obliged to use a weather analogy in everything I write). A great big storm, swirling planks of wood, car doors and trees around and around. They all sort of smash into you, and bounce off you, then disappear. The storm doesn’t clear, or the sky turn blue, but you walk out the other side. Every. Single. Time.
It goes away. Every. Single. Time.
It’s a bit like a hangover.
They go away, too.
*The sky never falls in.
– Will Nett (Author of Billy No Maps & My Only Boro)