You can see it far off, looming on the horizon, a thick fog menacing off the coast and swirling in the distance. You know the signs. You’ve been here many times before, but you’ve learned to carry on. At first you kind of ignore it, you are aware it’s there, but you don’t want to work yourself up so you busy yourself with things in the hopes the winds will change and it is driven out to sea. But the winds rarely change.
In time it approaches, subtle and quiet, caressing its way—almost seducing—its way back into your life. Your ostrich-defense has not worked and you aren’t able to continue the charade of hiding. At first it’s manageable. “This isn’t so bad” you think, “I can handle this.” But before you know it the fog is all around you, the thick blur is everywhere and the familiar comforts are whited-out. In the fog sounds are distant echoes, faces are veiled shapes and the familiar becomes strange—but strange because this particular strange you know all too well. Feeling alienated, overwhelmed—unable to trust yourself, in the fog of anxiety you give up. You lose yourself in a kind of existential madness. You have a panic attack.