Spirit Plant and Panic Attacks

I thought I was past this.

I thought I had beaten the monster.

I was wrong.

The first panic attack I remember having was the first week of 9th grade. My mom was driving me to school for the first day, and there I was, sitting in the front seat of the minivan, dry heaving into a tea towel. I couldn't breathe. I was dizzy and nauseous and felt terror flooding through me. I was petrified of walking into this building. My mom didn't seem all that phased by this; turns out my family has been having panic attacks since- get this- the Civil War! My grandfather used to tell me stories about my great great great something who lived in DC during the Civil War (I'm an 8th generation Washingtonian) and they would run down the streets knocking on doors asking for help because they thought they were dying. So yeah, we've been passing down this trait for a very long time. And each morning for at least a few months I would sit in the passenger seat, dry heave into the tea towel, wait for my legs to stop buckling from under me, and then walk into the building.

For the most part they didn't come back until I started college. Again, seemingly out of the blue, the terror would rise. It starts in my stomach. A knot that turns to nausea. I feel my bowels liquify- yeah, that's a thing. Gross, right? The real fear, and I can't believe I'm putting this out there, is that I will pass out and puke and poop myself in public. That is actually what I'm afraid of. Laying in public in a pile of my own excrement from both ends. From there I start hyperventilating, my heart rate increases, I begin to sweat excessively, and I start to black out while trying to find a bathroom. In college I learned that if I could get to my car I would be safe. My car was my sanctuary. This is still the case.

However the panic attacks were occurring more and more frequently and it was disrupting my life, both academically and in relationships. I would have to leave class to sit in my car. I would be on a date and have to make some excuse all of a sudden as to why I needed to go out to my car, too embarrassed to admit what I was feeling. Eventually I was prescribed Klonopin. I took a half of a pill once, and I felt so drunk I knew there was no way I'd be able to drive or sit in class this way. Yet I found that just having them available in my purse kept the panic at bay, knowing they were there if I needed them. I never took one again. I didn't need to.

Ten years later while I was attending herb school at MUIH I learned about Pulsatilla. Also known as Pasque Flower, Windflower, or Anemone, this is the herb for panic attacks. The more I learned about this plant, the more I fell in love with her. Historically used to treat women who were 'hysterical' in the Victorian times, I am completely infatuated by both her history and her energetics. Pulsatilla vulgaris grows on the sides of mountains, constantly buffeted by the wind. And while she appears so fragile with her wispy seeds, her downy coating, and her elegant leaves, she is nothing of the sort. She digs down, grinds her roots into the rocky unstable soil, and though she is whipped by gusts she never breaks. She is never uprooted. She stands her ground and flows with the changing winds. I mean, damn. Though she is a low dose herb, she packs a mighty punch with a few drops. For me, this was as effective as medication for taking me back down to earth during a panic attack. Pulsatilla is my spirit plant. She saved me.

Since then, I've only had a few little bouts of panic which I was able to control, for the most part. And to be honest, I thought that I had 'defeated the monster' when in truth I knew I hadn't actually done the work. I thought that I pushed it down so far within myself that I must have smothered it. There just never seemed to be a time in my life when I was ready to dig deep with a therapist to uncover whatever ugly mess is underlying my condition. So while I assumed over the last twenty years that I was fine because I had my symptoms under control, the past year has proven I am absolutely wrong.

My panic attacks have changed.

Bastard.

Last summer, while studying with Margi Flint as one of her teachers, it hit me again. This time, in the middle of the night.

The night before I was to teach I woke up in a sweat, followed by nausea, which increased to the point that I thought maybe I had the flu or food poisoning. I collapsed in the hallway on the way to the bathroom and blacked out. This continued for maybe an hour. What I thought for weeks was an illness, I later realized was a panic attack.

Four months later, it happened again. It was the middle of the night. I woke up, seemed fine. Rolled over. And it started. Panic attack. I tried all my things. All the things I tell my clients. All the things I know how to do. But I felt so out of control from the ups and downs of panic for hours that I was ready to call an ambulance. Five hours of waves of panic. I was afraid I was losing my mind. And I couldn't find my Pulsatilla, of course.

Needless to say, I ordered more. This was a teachable moment in so many ways. It reminds me of what my clients are going through sometimes, and how absolutely ridiculous it is to expect someone to just sit and breathe when they feel like they're losing their mind. It taught me that I am NOT OK. That there is still so much work to be done. It forced me to reflect on how I haven't been taking care of my mental health. It also reminded me how much I love love love Pulsatilla, and I am forever thankful for what the Earth has provided in so many ways.