This week I dared to take a drive with my husband to visit the Pacific Ocean, just ninety minutes from home. The ride down was nice, and I thought I was going to be relatively okay. And I was--until we parked at the dunes and got out of the car.I should have felt in good company. The people in the parking lot seemed to be as crazy as I, albeit a different kind of crazy. They were Westport surfers, donning wet-suits in preparation for hitting the waves in 50-something degree weather. Their minds were completely focused on surfing, so I found them to be oblivious to our presence, which was comforting. Trouble began for me when I started to the beach with a climb up the slopes of the dunes. I had to keep my eyes focused on the sea grass and flowers, as I felt I somehow didn't have the mental capacity to look up as I climbed. As we topped the little hill and saw the beautiful ocean and sandy beach before us, we were blocked from them by a massive pile of driftwood, much like that pictured above.
I have navigated many a pile of driftwood over the years of my life, and I usually very much enjoy the game of picking my way through. But this time, I felt my mind darkening at the sight, and I wondered if I was going to pass out. I became nauseated and was fighting back tears. It was all I could do to concentrate on each step made by my husband, and to follow precisely in his footsteps. He was very kind, and offered a hand, each time it was helpful, to step down from one log to the next.
Once we were through the driftwood, I collapsed on his shoulder and sobbed.
Soon I was removing my shoes, though, and sinking my feet deep into the soft sand. It felt so good, so calming. We walked together barefooted, and put our toes into the cold ocean water, then walked back. I loved the experience of feeling the sand getting softer and warmer as we walked with our backs to the sea. There was a healing benefit in being there, feeling the sand and hearing the ocean's roar.
When it was time to navigate the driftwood again, I felt as ill as before. This time, however, it came to me what the problem was: too many decisions. I began the walk to the beach having to decide which of a web of trails to take. (My husband was being polite and letting me choose.) That weakened me, and by the time we got to the driftwood, I could not think any more. Heading back, I had not replenished my emotional reserve--as nice as the beach experience was--when I had to face the driftwood pile the second time. It has been years since I have come so close to vomiting.
I'm kind of extra-wrecked now for a while. No sitting on the front porch in the lovely weather for me today. There are people walking by.
(Thank you to this photographer for the driftwood picture.)
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2 comments:
I am so sorry
It must have been frustrating to feel all of that anxiety and fear and over emotional reaction to something that you know you have previously done without any problem.
I think you are a strong person for being willing to go out and try things you haven't done in awhile despite the possibility that panic attacks can happen at any time.
I'm glad you didn't throw up. That pretty much describes what I felt when I saw grandpa Allan in the old folks home right before he died. I had an over-emotional reaction and got physically ill.
I often felt physically ill when i was going to and from campus at BYU. I hated walking because the anxiety would build up while i was spending time walking from school to home. Remember those blessings Pop used to give me? They helped a lot...and so did the psychologist. she really helped me take control so I could get over my fears somewhat. But, I still have my demons.
I definitely relate to your situation.
I love you.
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