A pandemic prompts Pete Morey to reflect on all the times he has had panic attacks in the past

I remember the first time. I thought I was going to die. It was December 2007. I was on a subway on my way to work. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. I was hot. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I felt dizzy. I had to get off the train.

I gasped for air on the platform until the tightness in my chest finally relaxed. "Had I just had a heart attack?"

I was 29. I thought I was in reasonably good health. What was happening? I walked the rest of the way to work that day and tried not to think about it.

Looking back, I was dealing with a lot that December. My girlfriend Sabrina and I had just bought a house and then been immediately ripped off by the contractor. Before he split, he demoed the place so we couldn't even live there. We were about to fly to the U.K. for my best friend's wedding. I was his best man with a speech to deliver. I was terrified.  After that we were flying on to Kenya to visit Sabrina's family, many of whom I was meeting for the first time.

It felt like I spent that whole month on the subway travelling from our temporary place in the east end to check on the new shell of a place in the west end. Then to work.

The same rush hour grind every day. Rinse, scrub, repeat.

On the subway is where it happened again. It felt like I was drowning. I gave it a name — The Wave. This time I went to the doctor. He asked me if I was stressed and I told him everything I've just told you.

He diagnosed "panic attacks and general anxiety." It was a shock to me. Generally, I take after my father, once described as "so laid back he's practically horizontal."

The doctor told me I needed to relax. Always helpful. If I failed at that, there were pills. He gave me little orange muscle relaxers to be taken when the chest tightness came. Tiny pills to hold back the enormous wave.

Did they ever work! Pop one of those bad boys and you're loosey-goosey in just a few minutes. It felt dangerous. Frighteningly easy. No wonder people get addicted to them.

The doctor prescribed me 30. I think I only ever took three.

I decided instead to battle on, fighting The Wave when it arrived unexpectedly, keeping my eye on the door in case I needed to run screaming from a subway car, work meeting or social situation. I didn't talk about it. I was embarrassed. I felt weak. I tried to keep it a secret from the world.

Slowly some of those stresses went away. We found a new contractor and finally moved into our house. I killed the speech at the wedding, and my Kenyan family accepted me with a warm smile and the line — "We don't normally like white people but for you, we'll make an exception."

A year after that first episode, The Wave subsided ... it kind of trickled away. I took the whole experience and sealed it shut behind a hatch.

There were a few twinges here and there over the years when I felt the pressure build. When I drove on the highway with my family for the first time. I felt it then. Lightheaded, tense. I had to pull over. But for the most part the waters were calm.

There were 12 years without a big incident.

And then in the summer of 2019, it all came back.

It was eerie. My now wife Sabrina and I were living through another renovation, planning a trip to Kenya to introduce our daughter to her East African family.

I could feel the pressure building. But I trusted the seal would hold.

And then one day it burst wide open. I was once again in the grip of something I couldn't control, at the mercy of that awful Wave. I'd wake up in one piece. But by the time I walked out of the house each morning, I'd be drenched in fear. It was just so unpredictable.

At 29 you ignore things. At 40 I wanted to do it differently.

The doctor prescribed me the same pills, 60 this time. Again, I took just a few. I went to a naturopath, I exercised. I did yoga, I got a meditation app, all with varied success.

Most importantly I talked to a counsellor. I had tried this briefly before, but this time it clicked. Her first question opened me up, cracked me like a nut. It all came out. Finding the right person to talk to has put me back on course.

That is the thing that helped the most. Talking.

And not just to experts, but to colleagues, to friends; and now — in the age of corona — at an acceptable distance or on the phone. 

Some people, of course, are not as helpful. Remember my best friend whose wedding I spoke at? We were headed out to a concert last year and I mentioned I'd been having panic attacks. 

His response? "Don't have one tonight."

He was kidding. That's his kind of deadpan British humour —  and I love the guy — but that's exactly the kind of response that had kept me from talking about it in the past, worried that people would think less of me, that I was unreliable, a liability or likely to collapse in a pool of panic. (For the record I never have.)

Most people are kind, less British. And the more people I speak to, the more I realize how common this affliction is.  

Bizarrely, I haven't panicked about the pandemic.

In my house, we are young-ish and in good health. We are focused on protecting our parents through loving isolation and easing our healthcare system by staying home and being responsible. We are talking to each other every day, perhaps more than usual. And maybe that is the key, a silver lining in what we are all contending with right now.

If and when The Wave comes back, I know this time I won't have to face it on my own. I might even pick up the phone and ask if you have time for a chat.

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