Shallow Panic

“Children, never swim alone. You can drown in a teaspoon of water.”  – My 3^rd grade swim teacher 

A few weeks back our training group was warming up with a descending set on 50s. Four on :50 seconds, four on :45, then :40, and finally four on :35. A set we do multiple times a week; going back many months. I make the effort each time to swim breaststroke the first round, backstroke the second, and then freestyle the last two rounds. The breaststroke is no Sunday stroll – the weakest of the four strokes for me. On this day swimming breaststroke was no different. I went last in the lane, and pushed to make the time send off. Backstroke would be easier. Then freestyle the easiest. Except this time, when I pushed off for the backstroke round there seemed to be a different sensation. Something does not feel right. No air. Each breath just drew in enough oxygen to keep me from passing out. My breathing quickly changed to shallow gasp. Where is the air?!? As if I swam through a pocket of outer space. The vacuum of space has no end. Each gasp seemed to grab less and less air. My throat constricting. I’M SUFFICATING! The lizard snapped his chains. Free at last. He raced to the frontal lobe, claiming marshal law. I lost control of my command center, so void of agency I jumped me out of the pool.

Since beginning swimming at age 12 I have logged over 10 million yards. (Roughly swimming from San Francisco to New York City, and then back.) Of those yards swam, hundreds of thousands have been spent underwater training my lung capacity. Breath control in the water is rudimentary for me. One foot in front of the other. Blinking. Breathing. However, this instance was the first time I fled a pool. Screw woman and children, good luck to the elderly, and forget the dogs and cats -- I had to get out. The grasp of time and space takes on a very finite existence when air alludes. And Death taunts. What the hell is going on!?! You’re dying man. I gotta get it together. It’s too late man, you’re dancing with me now. Breathe. Don’t pass out on the deck man, or you’re mine. Breathe. They’ll have to call 911, and it’ll take too long. Breeeeathe!

I walked around the pool deck to regain my faculties. Breathing in and out. Filling my lungs to the max with every breath. Oddly, no other swimmers seemed affected by the sudden loss of air. Actually, the air was fine. It was entering my lungs in volumes. My lungs were perfect. Then it hit me… panic attack. I quickly recalled my wife describing similar sensations when she had them in her early 20s. She talked of attacks hitting her randomly; struggling to breathe, needing to flee, and the feeling she was dying. Holy crap, my first panic attack. And it would not be my last.

Over the past month a hand full of stimulus have induced panic attacks; the suffocation sensation during swim workouts is one of them. Most of the attacks are coming as a result of amplified responses to my existing proximal anxiety. (If you can imagine experiencing claustrophobia in an open field.) I will detail in a future post my two decades long battle to mentally and physically manage this odd form of anxiety. Most recently, I began detoxing myself from the medication prescribed to me two years hence - in pursuit of nonchemical means. My physician and I felt stepping-back the pharma mercenaries were necessary to combat emerging dark thoughts and dreed. The retreat looks to have backfired in the short term. The lizard prince is no longer sedated. Shackles off, with a dictator’s lust for power consolidation, he is seeking permanent voting rights.