I never gave a thought to the fact that it was somehow unnatural to have butterflies in your stomach. It never crossed my mind. Getting up in the morning was a most difficult task and took every ounce of will I had. I'd lie there in the fetal position, and watch the red numbers on my digital bedside clock as they flashed out the time, minute by painful minute.



Looking at the situation logically, it's difficult to image not being happy while running a business I loved. Clock repair and restoration. I should have been in the happiest of states, and indeed one half of me was. It was the other, hidden part, the part no-one else saw, that for some inexplicable reason caused the trouble.

An excellent marriage to a very supportive wife. My son was married, and he and I were the best of friends. I loved my work, so what in the world was wrong? Once I was up and out of bed, my mental state quietened down. My work required a lot of concentration, and this took my mind off the problems of panic and anxiety. There's a hint here somewhere.

Doing what I loved doing, every day, should have been a holiday. I tried keeping a journal, tried writing down exactly what was wrong with me and more importantly, why?

Sunday evenings were the worst, and I expect this is so for a great many people who suffer depression, anxiety and panic. Quite frequently on Sunday evenings, I'd develop these frightful headaches. Stress headaches, I think. I tried to ignore the headaches at first, but they only became worse and worse until I had to go to bed and make sure there wasn't any light.

I'd awaken at around two in the morning, my head as clear as a bell and feeling at perfect peace. Earlier still, when I was in England, the panic/anxiety attacks would take the form of my being rooted to my chair, quite unable to move.

My first wife, who died of cancer in 1977, really didn't understand my condition and expected me to 'pull myself together.' Again, with extreme efforts of will, I'd do so, but then the headaches would start. I'd take handfulls of Aspirin to relieve them and go on about my business as best I could. There were times, though, when moving from my chair was, quite simply, an impossibility.

To cap it all, there was the alcoholism. It was a vicious circle. I'd drink to dispel the anxiety, then the hangovers made things ten times worse!

After my last discharge from hospital, about which I've written before. My wife, bless her heart, did her best to understand what I was going through, and those few weeks following my discharge, she used to give me my lunch where I sat.

The interesting point was that from the moment I felt I'd never drink again, when I felt that huge weight lift from me in hospital, I felt marvellous. I'd lie there in blissful peace. Why couldn't it always be like this. It was only when I was discharged that the problems started.

While I was in the clinic, I felt totally and completely safe. Of course, once I was in the big wide world again, all the fears and uncertainties came flooding back.

I didn't want a drink. It seemed then that I'd really kicked the habit. This has since been proved, because I haven't had a drink now for over 30 years. But the way these attacks would affect me was either rooting me to my chair, or I'd go pacing around the room, think of going through the door, then immediately go back to my chair and sit down again assuming an almost catatonic state.

When I think of those days, the title of the song "Windmills of My Mind" is uppermost. My windmills had lost a vane or two. I'd feel that something terrible would happen to me were I to stand up, so I'd sit there until the worst of the attack was over.

I'm a lot better today, but it hasn't been an easy ride.

Copyright (c) 2009 Mike Bond