In the beginning...

I cannot speak for other sufferers of panic disorder when it comes to the reasons why they have it.  Indeed the therapists who have treated me have all had their own views on which personal event of mine was the catalyst for developing such a disorder in the first place.  Yes, it could've been the fact that I was sexually, physically, and emotionally abused as a child.  Yes, it could also have resulted from being the quintessential high achiever from as far back as I can remember, and yes, maybe it was the traumatic medical events I had experienced as a young adult.  Not one of the therapists even brought up the illicit drugs I had taken during my entire adolescence and for most of my adulthood which I found a little strange.  Perhaps it was all of these variables combined.  Sometimes I think identifying the specific cause is worth exploring, other times I wonder if it would make any difference at all.

My earliest memory of panic would be around the age of four, give or take a year.  In any case I was just a little girl.  I remember being hysterical and my mother dragging me off to the bathroom to hold my head under the cold-water tap in the bath...just to calm me down, an event that certainly happened more than once.  I remember pushing all my girlie belongings from my dressing table with one violent sweep of my little arm, cheeks drenched with tears and fists clenched with rage.  I remember putting one of those little fists through my bedroom window pane and marvelling at what I'd done.  It's true I felt scared of getting in trouble for what I had just done, but I also felt powerful.  I'm pretty sure that this was the moment my love affair with opposing authority began.  I remember being frightened most of the time and I remember feeling lost all of it, and I certainly remember the first time I ran away.  I was five years old and had decided that the big, bad world had to have been better than staying where I was...so I packed my little bag, put on my little shoes and off I went.  Round and round the block I stomped...for two hours (according to my mother's recollection).  She had asked a neighbour to follow me from a distance, knowing full well, that if I had've seen my mother or anyone else coming after me, I would've refused to cooperate and return with them.  I'm not exactly sure how a five year old girl could refuse an adult anything, but obviously parents thought differently back then.  Never once did I cross the road...I simply knew I wasn't allowed to.  Ha!  My first real act of defiance came to an abrupt end when my little legs were too exhausted to continue...and so I trudged back to the place I had started.  Once inside, I plonked myself down onto my bed and sifted through the plastic bag I had taken with me.   Yeah that's right, a regular, good ol', plastic shopping bag. I had packed it in such a rage, that I had no idea what the hell was even in there.  As it turned out, I had only included the top drawer of my dresser.  The contents?  Singlets, undies,  socks...and get this...hankies. LOL!  I never was much of a planner...or a user of handkerchiefs :)  To be cont...