Back when i was in full blown denial of the fact that i was forever physically broken and would never be able to make a full recovery, i would mood swing from depression due to this giant hole in my right thigh large enough to put both hands out of sight in, to rage at the A-hole whose agressive driving put that hole in my leg, to frustration at not being able to walk more than five minutes without my left leg just dropping out of the process and refusing to hold me up due to massive soft tissue injury and nerve damage. Every day i'd set out with my cane, determined to take at least one more step today than yesterday. I'd walk until i fell, rest until i could get up then walk some more. I took to marking the curb with chalk where i was forced down as a way to gauge my progress. It took the better part of a year to finally accept that the reason all my chalk marks were within a few inches of each other was due to the fact the effing doctors i was determined to prove wrong about my situation were in fact right. Their telling me i would never fully recover the use of my legs was not just some way to motivate me to push harder, but was just the simple unvarnished truth; that my days of three miles in eighteen minutes were as much a part of my past as my last birthday.
It was really weird, when i first said (to myself) "this is your new reality", i felt a rush of absolute panic so strong i experienced vertigo and fell out in a heap while my stomach churned up a massive load of whatever was in it, and gifted me with a largish puddle of dank smelling slime to roll around in. My breath was coming in gasps and i was seeing all manner of odd shaped black cutouts as i tried to keep from passing out, and lost. I guess it was simply providence i passed out face down as i apparently vomited some more ( and lost all bladder and bowel control) after i blacked out. Wifey came home and found me, got me back around, and helped me up and into the shower. At that point i could not pinpoint what had caused the attack but over the next few days i figured out what was causing them, but that only led to them coming at random. Not as bad as the first one, but bad enough to cause shortness of breath and dizzyness to the point if i didn't heed the first warning and sit down,the second warning would put me staggering off my feet.
In the immediate aftermath of the wreck that claimed my mobility, i spent some time talking to a shrink about the whole thing because i was determined to locate the guy responsible and hurt him really bad the minute i was back on my feet. I screwed up and expressed that desire to wifey and she insisted i talk to a pro about my plans. He was a great help on that subject so wifey once again asked me to go see the same guy. He decided i needed a little helper and put me on some form of mood elevator and it worked like a charm. I went from constantly wondering when the next ambush was coming, to happy, to drooler in very short order. One day in what was becoming an increasingly rare moment of lucidity, i realized i could replicate the feelings in the happy phase if i wanted, that while the drug had made it happen it was still a conscious thought process and now that i'd actually experienced that process i could repeat it at will with just a little effort and concentration. I flushed the mood elevators to avoid the possibility of returning to the couch forever and began to work on my newfound freedom from panic.
While i'm worlds better today, i still suffer one niggling side effect from those days, i have shed more tears in the last few years than i did my entire life prior to the initial onset of the panic attacks. It's a totally random thing and can be caused by beauty, joy, or sorrow, and it usually blindsides me. I'll be driving and a sad song will come on and it activates the water works. It may only be a few seconds, or it may last a while. I used to be so embarassed by this i would find a place to hide when it started, and i suspect it's the root cause of my reluctance to venture out into the world as much as i used to. I'm slowly getting better at recognizing triggers as i gradually shed the shame i once felt because grown men don't cry, and i still believe there is much truth in that statement, but i've also come to realize what an amazing mental pressure relief valve tears can be.
I relate this only to demonstrate that relief from panic without chemical tinkering is possible. If as simple a soul as myself can find it, most anyone can do the same thing.
That's a really powerful story. Sorry you went through all that, but realize my "sorry" doesn't amount to a whole lot. Happy you seem to be finding your way towards healing.
You mentioned a few things in there that triggered some memories for me. First is being blindsided by the panic. Mine could be triggered by anything, it wasn't as if any circumstance or outside events had anything to do with it. My own thinking was my own worst enemy, and the biggest bully I've ever known. I could be in paradise without a care in the world, and a panic could (and often would) come along and rob everything from me. It was beyond horrible, and I feel gives me a very clear understanding of things others sometimes have a rough time wrapping their brains around. Things like why someone like Robin Williams would take his own life. Or Chris Cornell, or any of those famous people who have. It makes more sense to me that
they would do that, than people who still feel they have a shot at something material saving them. If that makes sense? Not saying something material WILL save others, but it might at least give those others a glimmer of hope for the future.
The other thing, something I completely forgot about, was a thought I had when I stopped drinking. Alcohol was my medication for panic and anxiety, and it worked really well for a while. It not only eliminated the panic, it enabled me to do things I couldn't do; talk to women, attend parties, be the LIFE of those parties, jump on a stage, stand up for myself when necessary... and on and on. Alcohol was my courage, and when I first put the drink down I had a thought very similar to yours. Alcohol gave me the bravery to do all those things, but it was still "me" who was doing them. Something deep in my soul told me that I was entirely capable of doing all the things alcohol enabled, without the alcohol - and almost 33 years later I can say emphatically that I was right. I went from being a guy who couldn't walk out his front door without being medicated, to someone who's accomplished quite a bit more than that. More than I ever anticipated, dreamed, or even ever wanted for that matter.
I understand that some people need medication. I understand also that medication can be very helpful, save lives, and help people get over tough spots they'd probably never have gotten over on their own. What I think is a huge problem however (and something I know I keep repeating
) is that medication not a cure, and for most people, IME, ultimately winds up not working. As I said in my last post, for some people that's evident in a few short months or years. Other people it takes decades. Robin Williams was being treated for depression. Chris Cornell was being treated for anxiety. The Columbine kids were being treated, as was that kid who walked into the Batman movie with 3 rifles. All the people in my life who have taken their own lives and/or wound up institutionalized were people who were being treated. And I know many people who were in the same condition as me (and worse) who chose a holistic route, who have been healed. Some form of treatment was however absolutely necessary.
There is a great book I wish everyone would read. America Fooled by Timothy Scott. It's not the best on the subject (there are many others) but it's the easiest reading, and most entertaining. For me, anyhow. It makes clear a lot of the things about medication that I've always suspected, yet could never validate. Psychiatrists are taught to treat people with medication. Period. They don't work at helping people change their diet, and most don't even ever question their patients about that. They don't work at helping to motivate people to start doing even the simplest of exercises - something that's been clinically proven over and over to work as well as (and often better than) antidepressants. They don't investigate daily living habits people have that could very well be exacerbating their condition. They don't offer even the simplest of holistic exercises/practices that could make panic attacks and anxiety more tolerable, and chip away at them. They rarely offer any tools to facilitate healing. They medicate, discuss and evaluate how the medication is working, and talk about people's problems.
I could obviously go and and on and on... again, it's why I wrote a book.
I'll end by reiterating that I am NOT totally against medication for mental/emotional illness. I have however made some rules for myself which I don't think I've ever mentioned before. These are my own personal rules. I will not ever again consider medication unless I'm:
A. Suicidal
B. Homicidal
C. Truly unable to function
D. Hearing voices or having delusions
Thankfully none of those apply. I'm hopeful that they never will, so long as I keep doing the things I've been doing for the past 30 plus years.
). And of cousrse; I too; hope everyone here is well! 
