A Day At The Beach Ft. Anxiety Attacks

Today I turned off my phone, grabbed Plato and a bottle of water (the necessities) and drove to my favorite beach in Malibu. I don’t like gatekeeping, however, I reserve the right to gatekeep the name of this beach as my final shred of sanity. This particular beach lies at the base of cliff, which features what once was a paved road and is now a broken down dirt “trail” to the bottom. It’s not your typical Southern California beach – you can’t walk for miles, nor is there ample soft dry sand to lay out a towel for the day – but it has character.

What was going to be an aimless drive for hour upon hour, wound up with me, my dog, and our emotional support water bottle at our favorite beach. I say “our,” because we discovered it together four and a half years ago and it’s one of the few places I feel comfortable letting him run freely – don’t tell beach patrol.

On this particular Wednesday in February, I had hopped in my car as a last ditch effort to curb yet another panic attack. They’ve been happening daily; well, almost daily, but if you were blessed at birth with a brain that at any given moment can launch you into the throws of genuine, visceral fear then you know half an hour can feel like a lifetime. It doesn’t matter how many of these experiences you’ve lived to tell the tale, each time feels like you’re dying. For anyone who doesn’t know the feeling that’s the best way I can describe it. As with anything there are varying degrees of “attack,” but at the root of a panic attack is essentially your mind recognizing some danger and jumping into action – fight or flight, life or death. The issue is that there is no perceptible peril and so how do you channel this angst? There’s no monster to fight, no murderer to flee, so how do you convince your subconscious it’s safe?

After ten years of therapy and a history of experiencing these bursts of angst, I wish I could say I finally found the answer. Obviously I remain questioning. Everyone has their own way of channeling this energy when it comes about. For me, the fight or flight usually kicks in and I start with panic texting my mom or other confidants for some reassurance. I’m unfortunately not one to say “Hey, I’m having a panic attack and not thinking rationally.”

So one of two things tends to happen: 1) I step away from the phone as I gather my wits and start to reclaim homeostasis or 2) I start texting my chosen confidant (nine times out of ten that being my mother) some undeniably alarming sh*t. My mother must be a saint considering she endures this chaos amongst three daughters, while remaining sane. Why I turn to my mother is a question I’ve been mulling over as of late and I think it has to do with the unrelenting love of a parent. Mothers are often categorized as the singular people in the world who will love their children above all else and protect them at all costs (well, some mothers). How does she still love me? Only a mother’s love can answer that.

Anyway, after my small or gargantuan freak out I always regain my balance one way or another. Enough balance to seek some solace in myself. Writing brings peace. Walking my dogs gives a sense of importance and nurturing. Driving offers a feeling of freedom. Zoning out in front of the tv simply numbs my mind. Driving is usually sign of a gargantuan breakdown.

In high school (and I hate to admit as a young adult) there were moments when I’d shut off my phone and drive off with no warning or explanation, understandably terrifying anyone who realized my phone was off. Totally selfish on my part. I like to think that nearing 25, I’ve learned that’s completely unfair. So today, I told my boyfriend and my sister I was shutting my phone off for awhile, specifically telling my sister, “If mom calls, tell her I’m fine please.” And I drove.

Back to the beach. Our beach is often relatively empty, especially at 1 pm on a Wednesday – truly the perfect place for a cathartic cry and to feel sorry for yourself (kidding, kidding…). As we trekked down the dilapidated walkway with Plato in the lead and me bringing up the rear, I noticed the torrential rain of weeks past had done quite a number on the dirt path. I couldn’t help but worry the beach itself would likewise be a total f*cking mess.

Coming down the stairs, I found the beach a far cry from being a “total f*cking mess.” I was met instead with a treasure trove of sea shells. I don’t mean the little shell shards you find on a majority of Southern California beaches, I mean big f*cking shells. Gargantuan shells for a gargantuan panic attack – genuinely the most large I’ve ever found while living in California.

Plato undoubtedly felt a shift in my mood as he ran off to go find a stick for fetch, looking back to make sure I’m close behind. These little moments, serendipitous if you will, gently remind me that the world is not against me; even when it feels like life is pistol-whipping me left and right. Plato and I spent the rest of the afternoon walking up the beach and playing fetch. I tried to teach him about anemones, but he preferred fetch seeing as he’s still learning English.

Taking the afternoon off did not solve all my personal woes and it sure as hell did not solve my work stress - lol. However, it did remind me why time and again I bounce back from what feel like the deepest of depths. There are too many balls to be fetched, anemones to be poked, and shells to be collected to not appreciate life a little each day.