Fear of Panic Attack

It happened again. And had been a while since the last one. If I remember correctly I was in an elevator in Argentina the last time and prior to that on the plane, somewhere over the Panama Canal.

Everyone smokes in Buenos Aires, as well as every other freaking European culture that I can think of. In every office building, sidewalk, cab ride, restaurant, bus station, coffee shop that I walked into in Buenos Aires, the smell of smoke permeated from the front door inward. I couldn't breathe and it freaked me out. It was the same in London all of the cities that we visited there. Why all the smoking? Does the Queen smoke?

I used to smoke. So now since I've quit, I am a real pain in the ass about it. Yes, I might still enjoy a malt beverage and a cigar from time to time. I stick up for the tavern or bar owner who chooses to cater to the needs of this sort of thing, but for the most part, I am not all that indulgent and prefer always to dine and mingle in smoke free environments. I am certainly OK with the culture anywhere. Who am I to judge? I simply find it uncomfortable, smelly and confining.

Getting on the elevator on the way to meet with the Portuguese speaking shipping executives that day was a real struggle. The cigarette smoke caught me from the door and I was immediately escorted to a 3 foot by 5 foot "500 pound maximum" elevator in the corner of the building. It was the only elevator servicing all of the floors, and we were to go to the 10Th floor. I was on my way to the stairwell when told it was ten floors up and they were storing office furniture in the stairwell on floor 6 because of "painting".

It didn't help that we were in Argentina on the anniversary of the famous disco fire that killed a bunch of party revelers at a late night club back in 96. I read about it on the plane, the 10 hour flight from Miami, in which I was sandwiched in between two slabs of farm flesh beef babe, my arms folded, for fear of touching them, was nearly enough to send me to the bar.

So it really started on the plane on the way there; the oxygen level amiss, the people next to me a bother, the long flight, the cramped flight, the kids crying, kicking, slapping, slopping, peaking, booing. I am not sure who in the hell was in charge but things were chaotic and I was mighty pissed. I screamed at the lady behind me to keep her kid from so much as breathing for the rest of the flight. I was hot, sweaty, bothered by the 200 or so people around me sleeping, unconcerned that the plane was soon to go down in a fireball.

The elevator was kicking my ass, and I was sent to the corner by the security guard, who smelled of pall mall. We got on the elevator and the three others jockeyed for position, I counted the weight and we were clearly 150 pounds over the limit and that is what started it. I charged to the front and pressed my lips against the remaining crack left by the closing door, the centimeters of airspace left before the journey upward, past floor number 6 with the stacked furniture stood blocking the stairwell. The rest is somewhat of a blur, the choking back of foam, the resistant urge to flee, the quiet effort to pry the doors open with my fingernails. Before I knew it the car came to a stop, the doors opened and and a small man with a thin mustache was smiling at us, cigarette in hand, motioning to us in "broken Port", to come back the to conference room.

So it happened again today on my flight to Oklahoma City. I recounted the entire ordeal of Argentina while sitting in my seat waiting for the plane to take off. Because my mind had triggered the memory, I was off in to the build up of the panic attack that later ensued. I am thinking the whole ordeal was a pretty good workout because I broke a sweat and my heart rate averaged around 170 for the 15 or so minutes of fear.

So first thing this morning I got online and found a couple sites that basically tell me to quit listening to my inner voice, my trigger mechanisms, the fear of fear, the fear of panic.