FEAR

DAVID DAISH

On Line

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An AuthorsOnLine Book

Copyright © Authors OnLine Ltd 2003

Text Copyright © David Daish 2003

Cover design by Alan Taylor ©

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ISBN 0 7552 0110 8

Authors OnLine Ltd 40 Castle Street

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David Daish has pursued a variety of careers, beginning with seven years as a Scientific Assistant with the British Meteorological Office. Thereafter, he worked as a bookkeeper, pensions administrator and was trained as an Associate Analyst with IBM. He left them in 1995 to set up his own IT business.

In 2001, he began writing part-time as well as running a small, specialist IT consultancy, dealing with software testing and system troubleshooting.

His interests include an abiding passion for the weather, contemporary and classical music, computer programming, plus a long-term fascination with all matters spiritual, mystical and magical. He also has a keen interest in languages and is currently studying for a degree in Language Studies with the Open University.

He lives in Southampton, Hampshire, with his wife, daughter, two cats and a budgie.

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This story is one of sheer torture. It tells us of the agonising

introduction to Fear, desolation, agoraphobia and all the accompanying terrors.

The author has literally bared his soul to try to help others suffering in this and similar style. He is convinced this aggressor can not only be met, but dealt with and indeed put to work in our favour.

Strange as this may seem, the way he describes each and every feeling, gives a sense of belonging, to being understood, to convince us we are not simply going mad or even skating around the borders of death.

Many, many books are written about this subject - about the technology of the dreaded illness, but we all ask - how does it actually feel? What are the symptoms? Are these dreadful heart thumping sensations normal?

David Daish explains in details we can all understand, the feeling of living outside of one's body. The sick dread, the terror that is all engulfing. He spares nothing of himself to bring help and comfort to the millions of sufferers, but in a language we can all relate to.

One could be forgiven for thinking this is a depressing subject, it is for the sufferers, but Daish has sought and found answers the hard way. He is convinced the tragic experiences he was forced to encounter, without explanation have taught him true value. He believes all the things that have happened to him have given him a new prospectus on life itself.

A moving, truthful and powerful story of hope and how to face fear and move on. This can help many of us suffering from we know not what, more importantly - how to deal with it.

- Wendy Anne Lake – Writer and Novelist

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WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS TRUE; IT IS TO HELP EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER SUFFERED FROM

PANIC/ANXIETY/DEPRESSION.

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CHAPTER ONE

This story has been a long time in the making; it will certainly be a long time in the telling!

It has taken me many years to bring myself to recount some of these painful events in my life. I do so now because it feels right that I should. What has been imprisoned within me for so long will, I hope, prove to be a release for those who read about it.

It will touch on many painful feelings, strike many a chord, with those of you who have lived, and are still living, the nightmare of anxiety, panic and depression.

I want you to be able to read it, and then read it again; to come back to it whenever you feel lost, alone and afraid. However you may feel about yourself right now, one day you will view what you have experienced as a privilege.

As impossible a notion as it sounds right now, that is exactly what will happen, because you have been given the chance to defeat a monster most people spend their lives running from and never, ever, confront: FEAR.

We must feel this is our nature. Fear is part of nature and it has always had its purpose: to enable us to SURVIVE. Obvious enough, but so often overlooked. So why must it consume us, dominate our entire existence, cause us to live half a life, ruin any potential joy, force us to live in a small, damp, dark cellar when there is the wide open expanse of sky just outside? Why?

To me, the 'Why' question has overshadowed most of the last 30 years. It comes in so many forms: Why is this happening to me? Why can't I just be normal like everyone else? Why can't I just be happy? Why don't I seem to get better? The list could be very long.

So now I am going to take you back to the past, back 32 years in fact, because that is where I began the journey proper into fear. This was the early 70's, a time unknown to a lot of you I'm sure, but to me as I was then, a shy, sensitive 18 year old, the early 70's marked some serious growing up.

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*** My teens were pretty lonely and unhappy. My elder brother, with

whom I used to share everything, had made his own circle of friends by the time I had reached my early teens, and we drifted apart.

During those years, I led a solitary existence, looking after some chickens we had and growing vegetables in the garden. I was painfully shy and rarely went anywhere. I also missed a great deal of school because I was often on the receiving end of the cruel tongues of school bullies. After frequently playing truant because I hated it so I finally left school at 16 - the earliest I could manage.

However, during that time, in 1967, I suddenly developed a passion for the weather. For 2 years, I used to keep a detailed weather diary. I learned all I could about the subject: about clouds and weather systems. I knew then I had to find work which would allow me to exploit this interest.

In 1969, some weeks after I left school, I applied to the Meteorological Office for the job of Scientific Assistant. At first, I was scared of what might be involved and kept putting off applying. Eventually, Mum wrote to them on my behalf and I got the relevant forms back and returned them.

There were many posts for this particular grade up and down the country. I was hoping I might be able to apply for one near to home, but it didn’t work that way, as you had to agree to go wherever the vacancies existed.

Nevertheless, they invited me for an interview. I shall never forget it. I took along my most recent weather diary, explaining with great enthusiasm what it was about to the Principal Meteorological Officer who was interviewing me. I also impressed him with my knowledge of the subject; there was just no way they wouldn’t have offered me a job!

They did! But it was to be at their HQ in Berkshire, which would mean living away from home. Also, it was not a weather observing post, which is what I really wanted. It involved working in climatology: gathering weather data from around the country and compiling statistics. Still, at least it meant I was at the HQ; they had a fascinating library housing weather records back to 1860. As you can imagine, I used to spend a lot of my spare time there.

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I started work in November 1969, living in rented accommodation, with a very dear, kind landlady who looked after me and fed me. Every weekend I would go home to my family and return Sunday night, travelling by train for several hours each time. I was mostly broke; working in the Met Office was great but the money was dismal: after I'd paid my travel expenses etc. there was precious little left.

But I did enjoy the work, even though I was so very shy and it took weeks before I really talked to anyone. Also, for the first time, I had to start using the telephone, which was something that used to make me shake with nervousness. I would wait until lunchtime when everyone was out so no one would see me tremble as I held the phone!

***

For 2 years I continued with the weeks away and the travelling; 2 years of what was to prove a slow and insidious decline; 2 years of approaching the cliff edge without even realising what was happening.

In 1971, I tried repeatedly to get a posting to a station nearer home but was rejected every time, which led to increasing frustration. Gradually I began to get depressed, easily anxious and worried over minor things. Weekends were beginning to be my only refuge and the effort to return to Berkshire each Sunday gradually became harder and harder.

One thing in particular pushed me closer to my first major confrontation with the big F: a family member who came home each weekend and disrupted all our lives as a result of heavy drinking. This is another story in itself, but it was enough to ensure my weekends were becoming more and more stressed.

By January 1972; a cold, very sunless and depressing month, as I recall, I reached a state of mind and body such as I had never experienced before. In spite of my rather miserable teen years I still had, underneath it all, a very loving, sunny, inquisitive nature. For me life had always had some sort of mystical property which is hard to describe: it always seemed so very special.

But now it was losing its colour; it was becoming greyer and greyer and strange and disturbing thoughts and feelings were

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beginning to plague me. All the old certainties of my existence were starting to crumble. It was leading to something...then, I didn't know what.

February arrived. The skies were even greyer and on top of everything else we were experiencing power cuts. Then the day of my first ‘Close Encounter’ arrived.

It is still so vivid in my memory. It was lunchtime: lunch taking place three floors up in the building where I was employed. This particular day, and I’ll never know why, I decided I was going to run up those three flights of stairs. I was out of breath by the time I got there, but otherwise okay. I got my food and sat down with the friend who usually shared lunchtime with me.

Then it started. Waves of nausea spread over me. My heart started racing like it had never raced before. My friend asked me if I was all right, as I had gone very pale. I said I felt sick and promptly took my dinner back. I rushed out of the cafeteria and downstairs to the nearest loo.

I remember clearly how I stood in the toilet cubicle, quivering in a state of shock and thinking, "What in God's name is happening to me?" Never in all my life had I felt so terrified, so utterly devastated by the sheer intensity of bodily feelings. I was panting. No, I was gasping in terror. "Oh God, what am I going to do?" I thought, as every nerve in my body shook. I was still feeling very nauseous but by now the heart pounding was beginning to seem more important. I honestly thought my time had come.

How long I stayed there I have no idea. But I eventually calmed down a bit and hurriedly left the toilet to go to the next one down! By now, I was shaking and sweating. This was unbelievable.

The big F had visited me and attacked me with all his fury, but back then I didn't really understand this. This was a hideous shock. In minutes everything I had ever achieved in my life up to that point just seemed to evaporate. "WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?" This was all I could think. It was as if something stopped forever in that moment; as if my life had now changed irrevocably, never to be the same again. This must sound melodramatic but is exactly how it felt.

After more than an hour I emerged very hastily from my toilet refuge to return to my office, get my coat and flee the building. Once out in the fresh air some of the nausea died down, along with the

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palpitations. I walked for some time, back to my rented room. All I could think was "What the hell is going on here?"

When I arrived back at my lodgings, I walked in on my landlady, told her what had happened and said I'd better return home. She was very concerned because she said she ‘had never seen me like this’. I hastily packed a few things and made off for the train station. I stopped briefly to phone work just to let them know where I was.

The journey home was like a bad dream. Although physically I felt a bit better, there was now an awful sense of foreboding within me and I just wanted to understand why it was that I had reacted so strongly. I'd been ill before, felt sick before, even had palpitations, but NOTHING had ever upset and frightened me so badly. It was then that the little voice of doom inside me began, suggesting that all this was very serious; something very bad was on its way.

***

When I arrived home at night I booked an appointment to see the doctor. I didn't feel like eating anything, but felt physically exhausted and extremely uneasy.

Only after many years of pondering did I realise what this dreadful episode marked the beginning of. Throughout my story, you will find many references to wholeness, a concept I believe is central to what happened to me.

Basically, wholeness to me is the drive which exists within everyone to create a BALANCED life: a life to express YOU as you truly are, the inner you which often lives under layers of rubbish accumulated through injunctions from parents, teachers and friends. All the stuff that is decided as GOOD for you, as the right way to live, and gradually becomes a dead-weight you struggle to carry around and live by.

Don't get me wrong; a lot of what is taught obviously has some value. What strangles you is: forcing yourself to live by the standards of others, to the exclusion of your own special needs and wants. When you progress too far down the wrong road, the wholeness drive brings into your life something aimed at putting you back on course.

Yes, I realise this is hardly a new idea; I also realise how a lot of people have had their lives badly scarred, even wrecked, by the actions of those who supposedly had their best interests at heart.

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What I am really trying to say here is, seen from this distance, my appointment with fear really did have to happen. My life could not have continued as it had, for I had outgrown it. You will grasp my meaning more clearly later, when I describe how my life developed over the following weeks and months.

*** Visiting the doctor the following day, I explained what had

happened. Having in mind how terrified I had felt and how intense it had all been, I fully expected the doctor to give me a thorough examination and refer me for further tests.

Far from it! He looked briefly at my throat, felt my glands, announced it was only flu, and advised I should take a few days off.

“This isn't right,” I thought. “Flu?! When the hell had flu ever felt like this?” No, this was no good. Why, he didn't even give me a prescription! I left feeling even more confused than when I arrived. Something here was very wrong.

The next few days were very miserable. Normally, when I had been ill, I would just rest up for a while, enjoy the break, watch TV, read or whatever.

This time, I was very unsettled. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't exactly feel ill. The nausea wasn't there, but I was haunted by the memory of what had happened to me. What if it came back?

I was feeling anxious, unsure what to do. Also, I was faced with having to return to work. Return to work! The thought made my stomach turn over. Supposing it happens again? What will I do?

Sunday evening arrived and I was getting very scared. I felt tired, listless. “It’s no good,” I thought, “I can't face travelling all that way feeling like this.” I'd go back to the doctor, take another week off. Having made that decision I felt a little better and so next day, off I went to see him again.

"Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "Viruses sometimes take a bit longer to go." He then signed me off work for another week.

Again, I left there thinking, “This is not right. I DON'T HAVE FLU; I haven't had it all along. He's wrong … it must be something worse … he's not telling me the truth … he's hiding something … what the hell is it?!'

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By now, all this brooding was beginning to tell on me. I didn't want to eat and I was waking up all through the night, every night. Even drinking alcohol seemed to have little effect.

I drifted around during that week, trying to engage myself in something to take my mind off it all. I couldn't find anything. I tried listening to music, listening to the radio, going for walks. Everything just felt the same: just grey, so very, very grey.

Sunday was here again and I was no better. I was jittery, unsure what to do for the best. I knew I'd better try to get back to work, if only to take my mind off these things.

I managed it - just - but what a horrible week it was. I struggled to work each day, feeling tired and rather ill. I couldn't concentrate on what I was supposed to do, didn’t want to talk to anyone and still couldn't eat much (I especially avoided the cafeteria, the scene of my first “attack”). I just kept praying for Friday to come and allow me to escape.

Well, it was the last time I would see my work for a long time. The weeks that followed were the most hellish I had ever lived through.

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CHAPTER 2 We are now in March 1972. That month, and the one following,

was the time when I was to truly understand the full meaning of fear. The weekend following my unhappy week at work was fraught

with anxiety. The memory of the suffering I had endured kept running through my mind. I couldn't envisage going back to work would make me feel any better.

It had, in fact, made me feel worse. Sunday arrived and with it the prospect of the long train journey back to work. I remember this day clearly because it marked a very important stage in my illness.

The journey involved passing through London. It was always busy on Sunday evenings as people returned to their workplaces, just as I was doing. That evening the train was even busier than usual so rather than squeeze into a crowded compartment, which I just couldn't face, I stood near the door, just to breathe some fresh air.

As the train headed towards London I started to churn inside. The prospect of another week such as I had just experienced, was starting to become too terrifying to contemplate.

For nearly an hour on the train I agonised over what to do. My insides were churning and churning, my heart was thumping, I just wanted to cry and cry.

A lot of my problem arose from the fact of not wanting to let my parents down; of not wanting to seem like a coward. All my feelings were screaming at me “You must get away from this, NOW” but my 'conscience' was saying “Come on, what sort of weakling are you? pull yourself together.”

As the train approached London, something within me sort of snapped. “NO, NO, I just can't do this: I WON'T do this! NO MORE!”

I got off the train and headed for the ticket office. All around me hundreds of people were milling round. Noise, lights, smell; I was

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panic-stricken: I HAD to escape from this. I was over 100 miles from home and I HAD to get back there, QUICKLY.

As I write this, I can picture what it felt like: a whirling kaleidoscope of images, nothing I could grasp at for support. How I got to the ticket office I really don't know to this day. I know I somehow got a single ticket home but I don't remember doing it.

The next thing I remember I was scanning around the place, desperately trying to find the platform for the fastest train out of there. More by luck than judgement I found a fast one, just about to leave.

I got on board as quickly as I could and went over to stand by the door as I waited. I opened the window wide, breathing hard and feeling my heart thumping, longing for the train to get moving, to rush me away from this madness.

Presently the train jerked into motion and very slowly I began to calm down, knowing I was now headed home. Then, at the first stop, the train waited…and waited. My fear began to rise again. “Now what?” I thought. After some minutes, a voice came across the public address. “Would all passengers please alight here as this train has technical problems. The next service to Cambridge is the stopping service on Platform….”

“Oh NO! Why this? Why now? Why can’t I just get HOME?” I hurried from the train and saw the train referred to across the far side of the station. I dashed across. My suitcase seemed to get heavier and heavier as I went. I struggled on board as the station announcer listed all the stations this train was going to stop at.

It was going to take me 2 hours at least to get home. At the prospect of this, my stomach went into a tight clench. Oh God, 2 hours! This suburban train was like a bus: crowded, noisy and, probably the worst part of all, there were no doors to stand by and breathe the fresh air.

I waited to get going. The fear I was feeling now was becoming very intense and my breathing very difficult. The most terrifying thoughts were pouring into my mind. “Oh my God, how will I get through this … what if I collapse … what if … what if ...” After what seemed like an age, the train moved off.

Then it started again. The nausea. “Oh NO! Oh God, please not this!” I was shaking. I was sweating. I thought I was going to throw

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up. 2 hours of this? I can remember sitting, frozen with fear, staring out of the window. My breathing was shallow and my whole body felt rigid. As I sat, waves of nausea kept sweeping over me followed by wave after wave of panic. I had to DO something.

In my bag I had a book. It was a science-fiction book. In desperation, I grabbed this book, put it up to my face and tried to read. I was desperately trying to find some way of taking my mind off what was happening.

The next 2 hours must have been the longest I had ever endured. With the book up in front of me, I read the same page about 100 times! I say 'read'; I only really scanned the lines. I couldn't believe how long this was taking. If you have ever travelled by train out of London towards Bedford and Cambridge you will know that there are dozens of stations, and this train stopped at every one!

Words cannot adequately describe what I went through in those 2 hours. How I wasn't sick I don't know. The panic was unbelievable; I reckon my heart must have been racing at 200 beats a minute for most of the journey.

How I must have appeared I can only guess. The British are generally very reluctant to talk to strangers on trains and I was glad this was the case on that evening, because if anyone had spoken to me I probably would have burst into tears. As it was, I peeked out from behind my book from time to time to see who was watching. One or two seemed to be looking at me strangely.

After what seemed an eternity, I finally arrived at my station. I remember opening the door as the train pulled in and jumping off before it had stopped moving, nearly falling over in the process. I stopped and breathed in the fresh air with relief as I watched the train move out. Suddenly, there was silence all around and my panic subsided, but I felt stunned. I was still 2 miles from home, but decided to try to walk.

As I headed home in the dark, I walked like a robot. I was numb, just drained, utterly exhausted. I struggled to make sense of it all. It was a dream; a very, very bad dream, and any minute I was going to wake up and everything would be normal, just as it had been. But no, this was no dream. This was happening now and I felt hopelessly lost.

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I'm sure you have been through something like this. I'm also sure that many of you will have been through far worse. Anyone who has never experienced this sort of terror cannot even begin to imagine such horror. It seems to grip your very soul. It consumes you, and feels as if your whole body will fall apart under the onslaught. To me, at that time, it seemed as if my life would shortly be over. I was only 18. I had much more living to do. Now, it all seemed to be gone. I had no hope left.

As I got nearer to home, I began to wonder what I was going to say to my parents. Say I was too scared to go? No, how could I? Say I felt sick again? Yes, that's what.

As I went indoors I tried to explain as calmly as I could what had happened. As I spoke, I felt tears coming. It was no good; I couldn't keep this inside me any more. I burst out crying and told them I really couldn't go on as I was. I wanted to know what to do, what was happening to me.

They listened, clearly only partly understanding what I was saying. They said they would try to help me. I felt so weak, so useless. I really didn't have a clue where I was going to go from there.

Monday saw me seeking another doctor's appointment. What on earth was I to say to him this time? Tuesday of that week, I was there again, sitting in front of him and trying hard to describe what was happening to me.

In those days you were lucky to get 5 minutes to talk to your doctor. He was invariably late and inattentive; the waiting room would be crowded and he would be in a hurry.

As I talked, I saw his eyes wandering; he wasn't really taking this in. I LONGED for him to give me some explanation for all of this, just to offer a few words to bring me some relief. But he STILL didn't get it. He still insisted that it was merely the after-effects of flu. I just couldn't believe this. He gave me yet another certificate and rather rudely pointed out that our time was up and other patients were waiting.

As I left, I felt utterly despondent. Where, oh where, was I going to find an answer? Where?

For the remainder of that week, I drifted around. Although I was not panicking I was deeply anxious, felt sick from time to time and

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had palpitations. I just wanted to be told what I must DO. No one seemed to have an answer.

*** Sunday was here again. I think my parents were expecting me to

try to go back to work. During the morning I set off for a walk. It was a cold, sunny spring morning, with a very strong east wind. It was a beautiful day, but sadly its beauty was lost on me.

Once more, I began to dwell on the situation. What was I going to do? I walked for about 4 hours, trying to decide the right thing to do. Should I return to work? Should I stay put until I felt better?

As I walked, I cried. It was so hopeless. There just didn't seem to be any course of action I could follow which would bring escape from this suffering. Everything I considered as a solution seemed hopelessly wrong.

Arriving home, my parents were concerned. I had been away for so long they thought I had gone missing. I told them truthfully that I couldn't go back to work. I knew this would not be understood. I was right: they kept asking, “Why not?” I told them I had to get better, had to have a rest and figure out what to do. I just felt so damned GUILTY! So spineless! But it was no good; I just HAD to stop RIGHT THERE.

In that moment, something changed. For the first time in my life, I had done something SOLELY FOR MYSELF. I didn't want to have to worry any more about whether this was expected of me. I had to do this FOR ME. I had to have space, had to hide away and lick my wounds. No more trying and failing just to please others. I had done a bit of growing up; and it had cost me a lot of pain.

Now at last I could begin to try to work out what had gone so wrong. I had to decide how I was going to get well again. At least, for the time being, I had been able to let go of the awful agonising about whether to return to work. As I considered this, a thought struck me. What about the doctor? What the hell would he say? I had to go back and see him to get a certificate. Supposing he refused. He hadn't exactly been sympathetic last time: still telling me that this was flu, for God's sake! What would I do if he wouldn't help?

When you are not as low as I was then such a prospect would never provoke such dreadfully strong reactions, but this was so hard

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to bear. EVERYTHING was so grossly exaggerated; any situation could produce such strong emotions that it was impossible to even think clearly. Panic was always lurking there; waiting.

The next week I had an appointment and began dreading it. The doctor's waiting room was really horrible. It was so tiny and most of the time people had to stand. The surgery went through two doors and you had to push past people to get to it. The receptionist had to sit on the stairs with all the medical cards!

Most of the time you could hear what was being said in the surgery because the doctor was a bit hard of hearing and sometimes used to shout. What a place!

As I went in I could see by the look on his face that he was thinking, “Oh no, not him again!” I struggled to get the words out, to tell him what I was going through. He sort of listened and then proceeded to lecture me about how it was all God's will and that I mustn't give in. I just had to fight it and keep going. “Oh no!” I thought. But I kept on; said I just COULDN'T go on, I had to stop, I wanted to get better but didn't know what to do.

He was beginning to get irritated, I could see. He reached across to his stationery cupboard, pulled out a form and started to scribble on it. We sat there in awkward silence for a minute then he handed the piece of paper to me. “This is to refer you to a psychiatrist. He will be able to see you in a few weeks time.” A few WEEKS! He also wrote out a certificate for a month, together with a prescription for some low dosage tranquillisers. There was STILL not one single word of explanation or reassurance. Clearly, he just wanted to get rid of me. Later, I was to discover that this was indeed the case.

When I recall this episode, it makes me so mad! I was in such a state then and couldn't stand up for myself. It was a despicable, shabby way to be treated by that doctor. It was inexcusable. He made no attempt whatsoever to try to explain WHY I felt like I did. I would NEVER let anyone treat me like it now, however I was feeling.

The weeks that followed were definitely the darkest days of my life. Although I now had time, this was to be my undoing. Because I had had no help or explanation I tried, in vain, to find answers for myself. But, oh, what a way I did it!

Another major aspect of being so vulnerable to fear is suggestibility. Because everything that happens to you evokes such

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strong feelings, you become victim to ANYTHING that seems to pose a threat to you, however remote the possibility, because you cannot reason with it. So anything you read or hear, especially if it is medical or to do with mental health, makes a very big impression because you over-react to it.

Not realising just how suggestible I was I joined the local library, borrowing a number of medical textbooks and poring over them, looking for explanations of my symptoms. I even read, would you believe, incredibly technical textbooks written by Sigmund Freud! Fine, if you can read about this sort of thing dispassionately. This was most certainly not how I read.

After a couple of weeks of reading such heavy literature, I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I must be going insane. As if that wasn't enough, I was now interpreting every physical symptom I was experiencing as being a sign of some dire illness.

Things were now desperately bleak. I kept all this inner turmoil to myself. Every day was spent in thinking, “What if I have cancer … what if my heart is damaged by all these palpitations … what if …?” I'm sure you've been there! The weeks spent idle had done absolutely no good at all. I was getting worse, not better. I had no interest in anything, apart from those damned medical books!

One night, a new and sinister symptom appeared to torture me. After a particularly trying day when I had convinced myself I had every disease known to man and I was on the brink of madness, I lay in bed stewing, as I usually did. The tranquillisers the doctor had given me helped very little, so many nights were a case of just lying there for hours.

This night, however, was different. As I lay there, I suddenly became aware that I didn't appear to be breathing properly. It was as if unless I made a conscious effort to breathe, I would stop breathing. This idea was so ludicrous, but to my hopelessly suggestible mind then it struck me like a brick on the head. Instantly, a huge wave of panic swept over me. I started gasping for air, convinced I was about to die. I rushed into my parents' room in terror.

“I can't breathe, I can't breathe,” I kept repeating. I was becoming dizzy and my hands and legs were tingling. My parents got up hurriedly, led me through to the dining room and sat me down. They looked so worried; they really didn't know what to do. They tried to

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calm me down and made me a cup of tea. I couldn't go back to bed: I really thought that if I fell asleep that night I would never wake up again.

After talking for a few hours, my Mum went on to bed and Dad sat with me. Poor Dad, he didn't really understand what was going on with me but he still stayed with me. By 5 am, I was still wide awake and agitated. Dad, meantime, was asleep and snoring.

That night was truly a dark night of the soul. What I had experienced to date had been bad enough. I had thought if I rested for a while I would feel better, hence my decision to leave work for a while. But it wasn't working; I really was getting worse. Now, I couldn't even breathe or sleep. Panic swept over me again as I contemplated all this. I woke Dad. Again, he tried to calm me down for a couple more hours.

By 7am, Dad had to go to work. He was so tired; I felt dreadfully guilty doing this. After he went, it was slowly getting light. It was a grey, cold morning. I went out into the garden and started walking around.

For two hours I walked round in circles, round and round, staring at the ground. This was the end. This had to be the end. There was nothing left to do. I thought nothing anymore. All I experienced was just a heavy, black emptiness. I was too spent even to cry.

It was the worst night I had ever lived. I was at zero and couldn't go any lower. I didn't know it then but this was the turning point. When you are at the bottom, you know what they say - there is only one place to go: up. I was about to find the end of my pain and be reborn in a way I could not possibly have imagined.

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CHAPTER 3 April 15th, 1972. By 9am I stopped my wandering. My mother

was peering at me from the window, looking extremely worried. She opened the window and called quietly, “David, please come inside.” I shuffled indoors and slumped in a chair. I couldn't even speak. Mum tried talking to me, but it was all one-sided.

I had given up. There was no more fight left. What more was there left for me to do? I muttered a few words to my Mum, went to my bedroom, got undressed and crawled into bed. I really didn't care now what happened. Nothing I had done had worked, so - what the hell? If this was how I had to go, let's get on with it. I never expected to wake again.

For 2 hours I slept. 2 hours of oblivion. No dreams, nothing. When I came round, something very weird happened. In my room there was a bookshelf with many old books I had never got around to reading, including a number of language books; I used to love languages. As I awoke, I noticed immediately that my breathing was normal and that...I was peaceful. I looked across at those books and for a few brief, wonderful moments, a spark of INTEREST returned. I remember thinking, “I'd like to learn those languages.” Of all the ridiculous things to think at such a time! But it was a magical moment because I caught a glimpse of the truth of my situation.

Because I was too exhausted to fight anymore, I had finally let go. The letting-go had produced a peace I had forgotten I could experience. I wasn't about to die; something in me was still INTERESTED IN LIVING!! I just knew I couldn't die simply because of that. It was amazing. I had been through the very worst and still a little light remained glowing inside me.

If ever in my life I could say for sure that I had had an experience of a power beyond anything I knew, then it had to be those precious few minutes. This was totally new; it had no precedent. It was as if a

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force, a power, something, from deep down inside was saying softly, "Hey David, it's alright, it's alright; you're going to live, you're going to make it." I didn't hear any words: it was just a feeling of certainty, a strange sort of knowing. There really aren't words in the language to describe it properly.

*** In the following days I clung to the memory of that moment. For

the first time in what had seemed an eternity, I dared to hope again. They were still haunted days. I felt drained, barely able to get out of bed, very depressed and apathetic. But the memory of the little light kept coming back to remind me that I had hope. It was only a tiny grain, but in the weeks that followed something was certainly going to grow.

Later that week, I had another routine appointment with the dreaded doctor. I needed more medication so thought I'd better see if I could get any sense out of him about it. I turned up with my Dad, only to be told I was no longer on his patients’ list and had been transferred to another practice. Charming! Imagine how I felt. It was difficult enough going to see HIM; now I was faced with seeing someone new and having to explain everything from the beginning!

Anyway, Dad and I went across to the address we had been given. It was a ghastly place. The outside of the building was a vile purple colour and looked as if it should have been condemned. The door was old and scratched, with paint peeling off. As we entered, the waiting room looked like a large prison cell; no colour, dirty grey walls, and extremely miserable looking people sitting waiting. This had to be a bad dream!

We went through a door out of the waiting room, to speak to a very surly receptionist. "You'll have to wait. I don't have any appointments." We went back and sat down to wait.

After an hour, we were the last ones left and I was getting very agitated. At last a buzzer went and I was told by the miserable receptionist to go in. As I entered, what a sight met me. This place looked like a torture chamber. There were horrid looking medical instruments all around the room including a large bowl covered by a towel, with steam seeping out of it! Believe me, this is no exaggeration. And there, sitting in the middle of a very large desk, was a very old, red-faced man who I presumed to be the doctor.

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Talk about a horror film! I approached warily and sat down. He was reading what appeared to be my medical notes. We sat in silence while I waited for him to speak. "You need a prescription?" he asked at last. "Yes, please. I .." I was cut off.

"You're waiting to see the psychiatrist. I'll give you another certificate." He then proceeded to write one and handed it to me. That was it? He looked at me with a look that said, "Thank you and goodbye." I got up and left.

As I emerged, my Dad must have seen how upset I was. We went outside and I told him what had happened. He was furious and took me back in and demanded to see the doctor. The receptionist looked astonished. To think anyone would dare ask such a thing! She buzzed through to him.

After a few minutes, he emerged from his lair. My Dad explained that I was here for some help and asked why he wasn't prepared to do something, even to just let me talk to him.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do," he announced curtly, then strode off back to his room. My Dad followed him protesting, only to have the door slammed in his face!

By now, I was shaking with all this upset. What the hell was the matter with the man? "Come on son," Dad said, "we don't need him." We left and went back into town.

Through very many years I have come to the conclusion that absolutely everything we ever experience has something to teach us. All this stupid nonsense with doctors was the very last thing I needed at that time. But it made me do something I would not otherwise have done.

I mentioned earlier in the story how I had sought answers to my problems in books from the library. Unfortunately, they were the wrong books initially and just made matters worse. However, that evening I asked my Dad if he would mind taking me to the library. These doctors were clearly no use to me, I had to find out once and for all what had been happening and sort it out for myself.

The experience with my language books had made a deep impression on me. I was beginning to understand that I just couldn't solve this problem using the methods I had always used to overcome difficulties in the past. They were no longer enough. Here, I was being required to GROW, to go off in a completely new direction. I

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had experienced a part of me deep within which I had never previously known or even suspected existed. I was MORE than I ever imagined: so much more.

The library was a fairly small affair but it was new and well stocked with many of the latest titles. Instead of those wretched medical books, which had caused me such grief, I wanted to look at more esoteric subjects. I wanted to find out about this strange experience of this 'other' me. My only knowledge in this area had come from the Freud I had read, and his idea of the subconscious, with its raging passions and uncontrollable urges, just seemed to me to be way off the mark. All I had sensed in those brief moments of peace had been just, well, just love and gentleness. Simply writing this is making me cry because I can feel it now.

You see, outwardly I was always such an analytical, rational person, while inwardly I was very vulnerable, sensitive and emotional. Something in me was guiding me, sort of saying “You can be much more, you know.” In those days, had anyone suggested that you could ever be guided by anything other than your conscious intellect, I would have dismissed it all as nonsense. That is, before I was ill. To further suggest you could be guided to the right piece of information you happened to need at the time would have been met with even more scorn.

But that was what was happening. I found a book. It was there, like it was waiting for me, called 'The Science of Mind'. It was written by a man called Ernest Holmes and had been published in the States. It was a massive work. I picked it up and thumbed through it. This was heavy stuff, full of weird and impossible suggestions, ways of curing illness, ANY illness. I'd never seen the like of it. I borrowed it!

Back home again, I started to read this strange book. Here, the author was describing life from a totally foreign (to me, at least) angle. He was saying that illness was just an error in your way of thinking and you could undo all this by simply changing your thinking. Yes, I know it sounds like positive thinking etc. Remember, this was 1972 and ideas like this were still not very well accepted.

To be honest, I was fascinated by it all and would go to it from time to time just to read some of the affirmations. I hadn't experienced any sort of miracle cure; I was still so very tired, still

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agitated, still had the same old palpitations and nausea but, and here was the important thing, it was as if I had managed to put a little distance between myself and the feelings. I no longer felt I was alone, having to cope with it all with just the “me” I was accustomed to. I was starting to view my life in a totally new way.

Loneliness is one of the worst aspects of panic, anxiety and depression. It's not loneliness in the sense that you are isolated from others physically, although this certainly does happen. It is the loneliness of the suffering; the fact that you feel imprisoned inside a mind that is filled with terrifying thoughts, horrible images and awful pictures of what you think the future will bring. When you are locked inside with this, it doesn't matter how many people are physically nearby. You are alone in this world of pain, the saddest and most unbearable loneliness of all.

But now, I knew for sure that I WASN’T alone anymore. I had experienced another aspect of myself, a part of me that had hitherto remained hidden. I was beginning to feel that in some strange way this other “me” was going to take me somewhere. The sense of loneliness was starting to fade.

We were now approaching the end of April 1972. My parents had booked themselves a holiday for the first week in May and they wanted me to come along. At first the thought of having to make a long car journey was more than I could face. They were going to Cornwall, in the south west of England. This would mean a car drive of about 300 miles. After some days agonising, I thought “Why not? What have I got to lose?” The alternative was to stay at home on my own for a week: not a very appealing prospect!

As the day approached for our departure, my anxiety was growing. How would I cope with such a long trip? I kept dipping into my 'big book'! Things were definitely changing now. Something new was emerging into my life. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what was changing, or how, but a little bit at a time I was being educated!

The day finally arrived. Packed to the roof with suitcases, we set off on a cool, windy day. As we got underway, I fully expected the old panic to start returning. But no! Nothing of the kind! As we got further and further from home, instead of getting more and more agitated I was becoming more and more...INTERESTED! Yes, as we travelled along roads and through towns I had never seen before, I

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watched and listened to everything going on with an attention I'd never known. I couldn't get over it. I wanted to fully experience every single minute of it.

We travelled for hours and stopped for a little lunch in the heart of the countryside. It was showery, and we kept running into downpours of rain and hail one minute, then bright sunshine the next. We had just emerged from a downpour when the sun shone and produced the most beautiful rainbow. I sat and watched with rapt attention, as though I'd never seen one before!

Do you know, even all these years on, I still don't know exactly what happened that day. It was like a rebirth. I hadn't reached the end of my troubles by any means, but that day brought something special. It was joy, a very long lost friend. All my senses were working overtime; the sights, sounds, smells, everything. What's more, for the first time in weeks, I actually wanted to eat!! I actually had an appetite. I could TASTE the food and it was so GOOD!

Late evening, we arrived at our destination. It was very remote, and very quiet and peaceful. It was beautiful.

Next morning, I woke to the silence. It was wonderful. The glow of the previous day was still with me, not so powerful but still there. I hadn't slept too well. I never do in a strange bed. Nevertheless, I wanted to look around so I decided to take a little walk.

The roads in that part of Cornwall are flanked on each side by high stone walls and banks. At that time of year, early summer, all the wild flowers were emerging; wild primroses of all shades and colours, bluebells and daisies. It was perfect. In the following week, I spent many hours wandering those little lanes.

Being well away from the scene of all my intense suffering had taken my attention off my symptoms and thoughts to some degree. That’s not to say I suffered no fear that week. Oddly, although leaving the safety of home had been extremely difficult for me in the preceding weeks and months, this was different. I was with my family for a start. Plus, the newness and peacefulness of the location had a soothing effect.

Yet paradoxically I was at a stage where if I began to feel in any way relaxed or happy, however fleetingly, I would soon begin to worry about whether the fear would return, which of course meant

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that it did! During the week, I see-sawed a great deal between hope and despair.

We had a few trips in the car to some of the surrounding towns. On one day in particular I was feeling the shadow of my fear creeping over me again. It was a grey day and we were in Plymouth, a city I had never visited, so I thought I would enjoy the trip. Out of the blue, the old panic was back. I could not understand it. I felt so very disappointed after the taste of joy I had been having.

It was different this time though. I remember walking down the streets in Plymouth with the old palpitations going and thinking something like, “Does this really matter?' It's so strange, isn't it? Months and months of something totally ruling your life, and suddenly it starts to lose its importance. It died down far quicker than I had ever known it to do before!

One other amazing thing happened that week. During the worst weeks of my illness, I had lost a terrific amount of weight; in fact, I was down to 7 and a half stone at one point. Now, all I wanted to do was eat! I don't think I'd ever eaten so much in the whole of my life. I ate absolutely everything in sight! By the end of the week, I was back up to nearly 9 stone. Boy, that was some feast.

Saturday arrived and we were going to leave. My thoughts immediately went back to home. How was I going to feel when we got back? Would I lapse back into my old fears? Would I finally come to fully understand the meaning of my illness?

The morning I had woken up in peace was truly the turning point. The urge towards my own wholeness had woken up. Now I was to come to understand what I had to do to be free of the fear. The little light within had opened a door - to a kind of freedom I had never known.

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CHAPTER 4 Back from Cornwall, approaching the front door of our home was

like being led into a prison cell. The last week had been so different; if only it had gone on for just a bit longer! Now I was faced with trying to maintain my progress, in the place where I had been so miserable. On top of it all, I had to consider my job. I was lucky insofar as I was being paid whilst I was away. Also, I had been able to keep my rented room by paying my landlady a retainer. So I really had as long as it took to get well, providing my employer didn't decide to fire me!

As we went in, a stack of post was waiting. Amongst it, was a brown envelope with 'On Her Majesty's Service' printed on it. This sort of envelope is usually bad news; often they come from the Inland Revenue (the British equivalent of the IRS), or from some other official body. This one was from my employer. I opened it in haste thinking, “Oh, God, supposing they are firing me!” But no, they wanted me to attend a medical. Oh No! I quickly read through to see when and where '...15th May 1972 at the surgery of...' Yes, you've guessed it, the red-faced doctor at the chamber of horrors! “Welcome home!” I thought. “Great. Just what I need.”

In a few minutes, the old churning was back. What had been the use of the holiday now, when I had to come back and face this? Further sorting of the mail revealed yet another surprise. My appointment with the psychiatrist had finally come through! It was in Cambridge, somewhere I had never been, later in the month. Well, I thought, maybe now I shall be able to really talk to someone properly. Maybe now I'll get some answers to what had been going on in my mind all these months.

The week away was beginning to seem like a dream, although I still had a glimmer of the happiness I had felt. But I wasn't altogether sure how I had managed all the progress I had made. Yes, the

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symptoms were still there but they were slowly receding, becoming less intense. I was still having trouble sleeping properly though and in the week after my return from holiday I had a brief return of the old breathing problem. This time, however, I was able to cope with it much better. I could not fully convince myself that such a sensation was due to fear. I wanted some reassurance.

It seemed as if, even with the physical symptoms dying down, the strange and sometimes frightening thoughts were still there. I think, out of all the mental experiences I had at the time, the feeling of unreality was the oddest. Sometimes it was as though I was watching things from a distance, a bit like watching a film. Another peculiar thing was being afraid to laugh! Yes, I actually couldn't laugh properly. My face used to freeze into a sort of twisted inane grin! I guess happiness had been such a long time ago, I had forgotten how to express it.

May 15th was fast approaching. I was dreading it. I awoke in the morning with the churning at full strength. It was an afternoon appointment for the medical. It was a hot day and I didn't want to get a bus in such heat so I decided to walk. I set off in what I thought was good time to get there.

I hadn't reckoned with the effects of the heat! I had got about half way and my heart was pounding; I had to slow down. Then I realised that I had only 10 minutes left to get there. I almost ran the last half-mile and reached the surgery sweating profusely, heart thundering and out of breath!

I went inside the terrible waiting room. It was out of surgery hours, so luckily there was no one else there. The nasty receptionist told me to sit and wait. Some minutes passed. I had a chance to cool and calm down a bit. Then the surgery door opened and from it the red face emerged. "Come in please."

“Here we go,” I thought. The surgery looked the same, still horrible and threatening. The

doctor was slightly more civil than before. He actually started to examine me! As he went, he scribbled a few notes, not saying a word. Finally, it apparently was over. He had made no comment at all and muttered something about sending off his report.

I apologised for the fact that my heart had been pounding so much, told him that it still bothered me, and that I thought there might be

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something wrong with it. He looked at me impatiently and snapped, "There's nothing wrong with your heart. It's going like this" (he banged the desk quickly with his hand) "because of your nerves. You’re going to live for many years to come." Well! At last, a few words of help! I said nothing else. I thanked him and went.

Now why on earth couldn't he just have said something like that a few weeks ago? Why? I felt so relieved it was over. I now had some words to encourage myself: "You're going to live for many years..."

I realise how things have moved on since those days, but I can't help feeling bitter at times about the lack of a simple explanation from the doctors I had seen. What’s wrong may be obvious to them, but it is NOT obvious to the sufferer. When panic and anxiety reach such intensity, it is useless to tell a person it is only nervous reaction or whatever.

It is this exaggeration in everything you feel which is so bewildering; because the intensity makes symptoms so unlike the normal, everyday symptoms of stress, you simply cannot convince yourself that this is all they are - fear reactions.

Sufferers need a clear and detailed explanation, repeated as often as necessary so they can at least rest their exhausted minds from the non-stop question “What is the matter with me?”

In the week that followed, something DID happen to restore my faith in the medical profession. It was routine appointment time again. I wasn't looking forward to it. When I entered the place of cruel torture this time, however, a different face greeted me. Red-face wasn't present, there was a kindly looking man sitting at his desk instead. He looked up and smiled, "Hello. Come on in and sit down."

This was more like it! "Now, I see you've been having some trouble. Is there anything I can help you with?"

I couldn't believe I was hearing properly. I was stunned for a moment, then answered, "Well, er, actually, yes, there is. I have had problems with my breathing."

"O.K, let's have a little listen then." He then proceeded to listen to my chest: very thoroughly, I might add!

"Hmm, good chest expansion. No, I can hear nothing wrong there. If you like, I can arrange a chest X-ray for you to put your mind at rest."

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A chest X-ray? Hmm, it would certainly take away once and for all my fears about having anything physically wrong that had caused my breathing problems. I agreed that I thought it would be a good idea.

"How are you sleeping?" I had to admit that I still wasn't sleeping particularly well. "Right, we can do something about that. I see you are on low-dosage tranquillisers. I think it would be a good idea to give you something a bit more effective." He then wrote out a prescription for sleeping pills (Mogadon) and some Librium.

Do you know, I actually wanted to cry! Here was this doctor, a stand-in, never met me before, yet he had done more for me in 5 minutes than all the others had done in months! "See how you get on with those. Come back again anytime if you need help."

"Thank you so much, doctor," I croaked, and left the room with tears in my eyes.

As my Dad saw me come out he asked, "Everything alright, son?" "Yes, Dad, everything is fine." It really was. A doctor had really helped me... at last.

The next week or two saw me taking the pills and feeling so much better. I was sleeping like a log and the tranquillisers had taken away the perpetual anxiety and the worst of the physical symptoms. I can't say I was feeling my old self again because it is not an accurate description; I was, in fact, feeling my NEW self. I had never been this way before.

It was nearing the end of May and my appointment with the psychiatrist loomed. Never having been to one, I tried in advance to picture what might be involved. I mean, was I going to lie down on a couch, or what? No, surely not. Well, I would soon find out.

To get to Cambridge, I had a pretty long bus ride ahead. It had been a while since I had made any long trips (apart from going on holiday) so I was a bit apprehensive beforehand. Nevertheless, as we got underway, I once again found my interest taking over. This was new territory I was moving into. Cambridge sounded a fascinating place.

At last we reached the outskirts of the city. There was something vaguely familiar about it all. I knew I had never been there but...it was like I had. Finding your way around the place was hard work; there seemed to be endless narrow streets, mostly leading to all the

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various college buildings. And the bicycles! I had never seen so many people on bikes! There was hundreds of them, plus hundreds more parked in every available space.

But what an atmosphere Cambridge had. Wonderful. It seemed fitting I should be here for the reason I was. It all felt right to me. After wandering around getting my bearings for half an hour, I finally made it to the hospital where I was to have my appointment. I went into main reception and was directed back out, up the road a bit and round a corner. Some old houses near to the hospital had been converted to offices for the hospital's use.

As I approached the corner, a strange feeling came over me. “I know this,” I thought. As I rounded the corner and saw the building I had to enter, a vivid picture flashed into my mind as I remembered a dream. I had seen this place in a dream! It was so clear. Talk about Deja Vu! (This has happened to me several times since, but this was the first and most vivid time). It must have been a good sign.

I entered the building and saw the receptionist. What a difference from my doctor’s place. It was smiles, politeness and courtesy. After only a few minutes I was shown in to see the psychiatrist. I was half expecting to see a Sigmund Freud look-alike. Far from it: a rather small, slight, bespectacled man greeted me. We shook hands and he invited me to sit down.

For the next hour I was given undivided attention! I really don't remember what I said but I know I poured out a great many of the fears and feelings I hadn't had a chance to talk about before. Poor man, he hardly got a word in edgeways! Still, he was being paid for this.

At last I had talked myself out. He thanked me for coming, asked if my medication was all right and said to arrange to come back in a month. As I left I felt sort of cleansed, a feeling of relief filled me and Cambridge looked to be a beautiful place; no wonder I had dreamed about it.

I walked back through the centre of town and out to where the famous River Cam ran through. There was a small bridge over it and I just stood and thought for a while. So much had changed that year, and as I gazed along the river and thought back to the dark days in February and the hellish weeks that followed, my mind sort of wandered off …

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The wonderful, yet strange peace had come upon me again; that beautiful presence I had experienced the morning I awoke following my ‘dark night’. I have heard this called many things over the years but my very favourite is by an author whose books I love: Stuart Wilde. He describes this feeling when it appears as "...coming around the mind like a wind". That is so beautiful and describes it perfectly. I love it!

I stood and gazed for some time, with no thoughts to speak of. It was so peaceful that I just didn't want to move. Finally, I propelled myself back in the direction of the bus station before the last bus left!

The weeks that followed were some of the most magical I had ever lived. I believe strongly that in some way we are compensated for the suffering we go through. I know for some this can be a long time coming, but it does come, once we start to find out who we truly are.

For me, I was discovering a new way to live; a way that was being true to myself after so many years of doing things the wrong way.

By far the most significant event of those weeks occurred the day I went to have my chest X-ray. This was June, the middle of a cool but sunny summer. Going to the hospital where I was to have the X-ray involved the usual bus ride. By then, I was so much better and this wasn't so daunting. I got a bit lost trying to find the place but eventually made it. The X-ray itself was pretty straightforward, not how I had imagined it at all (I'd never had one before and you know the way imagination works in those circumstances!).

Afterwards, I decided to walk into town and browse around the bookshops etc. before going home.

I mentioned earlier how we can be guided to just the right information or opportunity we need. What happened next was the most striking example of this I have ever known. In town, I found a large bookshop I'd never been in. One of the things that had bothered me the most since I had started to recover, was that I still didn't know EXACTLY how I was doing it! Yes, I could see how the fear was gradually dying down but I wanted to understand, to be sure, to know that if I ever got so low again I would know how to pull myself out again.

As I entered the shop, I thought it would be a good idea to visit the medical section. As I approached, a book title leapt out at me from

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the shelves. 'Self-Help For Your Nerves' by Dr. Claire Weekes. I had heard of this lady, because Mum had told me she had seen her on TV, but she couldn't remember much of what had been said, only the fact that she had apparently helped a lot of anxiety sufferers. I picked up the book and started to thumb through it. It looked interesting, to say the least. I bought it and headed off back to the bus station.

My journey home was to be a long one as only the country routes had buses running on them this time of day. It was a lovely day so I thought, “What the heck, I'll get one of the slow ones and read my book as I go.”

As we got underway I started to read. As I got further into it a very strange feeling indeed began to come over me. This book was written about me! Everything I was reading described EXACTLY what I had gone through over the last months - EXACTLY!

All my symptoms and experiences were laid bare, in simple, straightforward language. For the first time, I UNDERSTOOD what it had all meant - going right back to my first “attack” in February. I now realised that this had been a panic attack - pure and simple, and that everything that had happened subsequently had been as a result of anxiety and depression.

If that wasn’t enough, Dr. Weekes was describing a cure; a simple 4-step cure which made perfect sense.

This realisation was an extraordinarily powerful moment. It was as if a huge weight had gone from me. I looked up and looked around. Everything shone with the most brightly intense colours. I watched people coming and going from the bus, many of them old and walking with difficulty and I felt such LOVE, such compassion. I was trying very hard not to sob with relief! It was indescribable. Never in all my days had I experienced such a powerful, wonderful feeling of sheer joy. Now I knew, I understood. Now I could really LIVE again, live happily again, grow and be free, so free!

The memory of that day is one of my most powerful recollections. When I finally floated from the bus, I remember walking back down the road as though I was two feet from the ground! Wow!

I have shared such an astonishing day with you in such detail, because I know that you too can feel the same. When in the grip of fear for so long we forget what joy is like, if, indeed, we have ever truly known it. Fear clouds every waking moment, like a grey fog, so

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that we come to think that this is all we can ever really feel. Only when the fog begins to disperse do we catch a glimpse of the sort of life we could be living.

Dr. Weekes calls this process glimpsing. That is so accurate because early in our recovery we perceive only tiny glimpses, brief moments, when as if out of the corner of our eye we see new possibilities. We see what we could become when the fear dies. Those tantalising moments are so short-lived to start with, but they provide hope. We can build from there, we can glimpse more often, and we can be CURED!

Throughout the remainder of that summer I had the happiest times I had ever had in my life, some truly magical moments. Soon I would be well enough to return to the scene that had originally made me ill - my place of work. Little did I know then that I would at last be led to living a life I truly loved.

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CHAPTER 5 The summer was now at its height. The glow that began on the

day I found Dr. Weekes' book stayed with me for days. It was the reassurance I had so needed and actually showed me that I need never again suffer as I had done. The memory of the suffering still came back from time to time, just to haunt me. The frightening thoughts were there too. But, somehow, it didn't really matter now.

I continued my trips to Cambridge, enjoying the day out now, enjoying the chance to continue to purge myself of all that had frightened me for so long. On one visit, I spent some time after my appointment wandering round the bookshops, of which there are many. (You've probably worked out by now that I just love bookshops!) I happened upon a new one, one of the smaller ones close to one of the colleges as I recall. It was one of those technical- type shops, mostly aimed at the students, so I didn't really expect to find anything there for me to understand! Nevertheless after wandering round for a while I saw, in amongst the medical books, a rather striking blue and white cover. As I moved closer I saw the title, 'Peace From Nervous Suffering' by...good grief… by Dr. Claire Weekes! I quickly picked it up and looked through. This was a brand new book, just published and only the second one she had written. After my earlier experience with her first book, you can imagine how fast I bought that one! This was probably the first book ever written which was directed specifically at people suffering from agoraphobia. In it, Dr. Weekes described in detail what agoraphobia is (remember, in 1972 it was still relatively unknown), what its symptoms were and - how it could be cured. You know, the book has accompanied me everywhere since then. It's a bit dog-eared now, but every word of every page has been read more than any book I have ever possessed! It built on my knowledge and understanding and - it worked. You

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see, what you need will come to you: the right information at the right time.

That summer was bringing so many new experiences into my life. For example, as I was no longer spending a fortune on travelling every week, I had a little money left over. I decided to treat myself to something I had always wanted: a stereo record player! It was only a cheap one, and I could only afford one or two records but, boy, it was magic! I used to sit in the middle of the speakers enraptured!

I think it is so important to spoil yourself in some way after going through this sort of suffering. For one thing, it helps you get used to the feeling of pleasure, and for another, it helps to make you feel you are worth something; that you deserve something. Through so much anxiety, you can feel totally worthless, good for nothing. You compare yourself to others who are not suffering as you are, nor ever have; you know, the apparently self-assured and confident ones; and you feel so inferior, so weak.

But when you come through the suffering you then have the strength that these self-assured ones will never have. You have a strength that is built on something solid because it has grown from WITHIN you. Events in your life will still shake you at times, but that strength will always come to aid you. You earned it... the hard way.

*** Summer moved on. Another holiday was in the offing; this time

my grandmother had arranged it for us. She had an elderly friend who owned a house in Norfolk, which is right on the east side of England. This house was right on the coast. Gran's friend had kindly agreed to let us rent it for a week in August.

This time, it wasn't so far to travel. When we arrived on the Saturday we drove up to this impressive-looking building, standing on its own in the middle of, would you believe, strawberry fields! Yes, acres of them. The house itself was beautiful inside: very big, light and airy. It had a wonderful lounge with a very large window, which allowed the sun to shine into it all through the morning.

As soon as I set foot inside this place, I felt so at home (no, I hadn't had a dream about this one!). I went to explore the surrounding area, in which, beyond the strawberry fields, lay an impressive-

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looking sand dune. This stretched as far as the eye could see in a northerly and southerly direction. I realised the sea was beyond it, so one of the first things I did was to climb up the dune and look over. Beyond was the North Sea and immediately below was a beautiful sandy beach, which seemed to go on for miles. I was going to like it here!

The weather that week was beautiful. All too often weather on the east coast of England gets spoiled when fog and low cloud comes in off the North Sea in summer. Not this week though. Most of the days I spent walking along the dunes looking at the sea, or helping myself to large quantities of strawberries from the fields (Gran's friend had told us to pick as many as we wanted, and we did!). For the first time in ages I was feeling really well and happy.

Two particular events during the week stand out in my mind. One evening, just before it got dark, I walked up to the top of the dunes to look out to sea. That day I had been listening to tape recordings I had made from the radio. I had heard a song by John Lennon, possibly not one of his most famous, called simply, 'Love'. It featured only him and a very haunting piano, (rather like the song, 'Imagine'). This song had been going through my mind all day. It was so beautiful. As I looked at the sea and played this song in my mind, I felt exactly what he was singing about in the song. I felt like I was no longer just a passer-by in the world. I gazed at the sky and the sea, and it was as if I really belonged here. Words cannot do justice to the experience; if I ever hear that song (which is rarely) the feeling returns and I remember the security of ‘belonging’.

One morning towards the end of the week I stayed alone in the house whilst everyone went out shopping. It was a sunny day and I sat in the lounge with sunshine streaming through the large window. I was listening to the radio and just sitting, looking around at the way the light was reflecting off ornaments, looking at the colours and listening to the music. This was a luxury I had never really enjoyed before. I felt so completely at peace with the world. I was alone but I was SO happy! It was beautiful.

These two experiences showed me something very important. It was their simplicity that spelt out a message for me: joy can come to you even after you have been to hell and back. It doesn't have to be a special event and you don't have to search and search to find it, it

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really is THERE ALL THE TIME. All you have to do is to be willing to let it into your life. You really don't need big life-changing events to carry you out of your pain and fear; you can feel the joy of life through the witnessing of it all around you, in the beauty that is always there when you have eyes to see it. It takes a journey through total darkness to appreciate the beauty of light.

Returning from Norfolk was a sad time in some ways. But I was feeling alive in a way I had never felt; at least, not since I was a child. In my mind, I was considering what I needed to do. I had improved so much; such a possibility would not have existed a few short months ago.

I had studied Dr.Weekes’ books at great length. Her central message was that in order to be cured you had to accept everything about your fear: all the symptoms, thoughts and experiences. This would gradually allow your over-sensitised nervous system to calm down. I had had time to rest, to allow this de-sensitisation to happen. It clearly HAD happened, just as Dr. Weekes had described.

But now I needed to see how I would cope with returning to the scene of my original suffering. This would prove one way or the other if I were really cured and it would give me the opportunity to find out just how well Dr. Weekes’ methods would serve me under those circumstances. It was one thing to practice acceptance when there was no day-to-day stress of any kind. It would be quite another to be able to accept when faced with the work routine again, not to mention the travelling. I had to find out.

On what was to be my last visit to the psychiatrist in September, I announced I wanted to return to work. He seemed somewhat surprised; during our discussions we had not reached any real conclusions. But seeing him had served its purpose. I had cleared out a lot of the bad stuff I had been carrying around for years, so it just seemed this was the right time to go for it.

I went over in my mind just what would be involved in returning to work. Long train journeys, staying away from home, getting up early, having to concentrate on work; I observed my own reactions as I considered all of these things. Yes, the shadow of my old pain passed across my mind as I thought about them, but I had progressed so far and now had to move further. I would return to work in October.

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The weeks leading up to my return date took some getting through. I managed to cope with them by taking everything a day at a time. I also reminded myself, I was going to PRACTICE going to work; the mere use of that word made it feel as if it didn't matter too much if I couldn't do it, or couldn't do it for long.

A realisation I had come to during the preceding months was that I had taken everything far too seriously; had made everything into life-or-death importance. I knew from the long months of fear that the most important thing for me to do was to be just what I was; no pretence, no trying to cover everything up. I knew that when I returned to work everyone would realise why I had been away so long and it would be pointless to try and pretend differently. Even in 1972, I felt there was a certain stigma attached to having suffered a 'nervous breakdown'; many still associated it with mental illness or insanity. I was conscious that there might be people I worked with who held such a view. I had changed a lot in 7 months. They would all see for themselves what a different person I was.

*** Sunday, 1st October 1972. Today was the day. Strangely enough,

for such a momentous day, I remember very little. I know Mum and Dad took me to the station and I remember Dad saying, "You'll be alright son. I'm proud of you!" I also remember the train journey a little; I kept telling myself to just let go, to 'float' my way there. I did too! When I arrived at the station in the town where I worked it was dark, and as I walked through the town it felt so strange to be there again. At last I reached my rented room and walked in to meet my landlady. She looked so pleased to see me. "David, you look so grown up!" I'll never forget those words! Grown up! Yes, I had aged, for sure. But I knew what she meant. I was only a few months older but quite a few years wiser!

*** Monday morning. This was the hardest bit now. I had been a bit

edgy but it was manageable. I kept repeating to myself, “Practice, just practice; you can do it.” The walk to work was like a dream. I willed myself on. “No turning back, you've got this far, just float there.”

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The main reception loomed and familiar faces were arriving the same time as me. "David, how are you? It's good to see you back." I heard this many times during the day. I was to be given an easier job for the duration and was really appreciative of this because I had been worried as to how I would cope with what I had been doing before.

That day lives in my memory because I was overwhelmed by the kindness of everyone there. Even those whom I barely knew stopped to see how I was. I never expected that at all. There was absolutely no one distancing themselves from me; there was just an open acceptance. It was wonderful. That night, when I went to bed, I cried a lot. I cried because never before had so many people been so loving and kind to me. I shall never forget them.

The weeks following took some stamina. I tried to vary my routine a bit. For example, I went back to work by train on Monday morning instead of Sunday night, which gave me more time at home.

It was not easy to keep to the routine of work. But I kept on reading Dr. Weekes, kept on impressing myself with the idea that I was only practicing. I simply went along with it all, day by day, accepting any nervous reactions, any frightening thoughts.

It really did work! Yes, I got tired, and yes I would feel apprehensive, especially when faced with the travelling and initial ‘confinement’ to the office each day. But I had learned what to do. I had learned not to fight fear. It was all the fighting that had made it grow, made it all so unbearable.

One interesting episode occurred several weeks after I returned to work. It served to highlight exactly how much I had changed, how much I had learned.

One day I had to do a particular job which involved visiting another office to use a special light-table. I went along and looked for the manager, to ask if I might use it. I didn’t know the man, only his reputation of being a cantankerous individual who used to treat his staff rather like a fierce Victorian teacher would treat his pupils.

I entered the office and looked towards his little office in the corner. He wasn’t around. As it happened, a friend, John, also worked there so I asked him if I could use the light-table. He said to go ahead and I settled down to work.

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A few minutes after I had started, the door swung open and in strode the ‘master’. He took one look at me and boomed, “Who are you and who said you could use that?”

I was starting to tremble and stammered, “I…I asked John if it would be alright.”

“Well, you must ask ME in future.” He marched off into his little office. He was SO rude. By now, I

was visibly shaking. John saw this and came over to see me. “Are you alright?” “Yes, I’ll..I’ll be alright in a minute.” John turned and glared. He made some very barbed comments in a

loud voice in the direction of the little office! After a few minutes I calmed down and went back to my work.

This had shocked me, this reaction, and I remembered vividly all the old intense symptoms and fears and just how horrible they had been. It was a very painful moment.

But I HAD changed. Later that afternoon, I had to come back and use the light-table

again. As I approached the door I was getting shaky and anxious in anticipation of confronting the manager, but I remembered Dr. Weekes’ words, “Don’t fight it, go with it all, loosen and accept.”

I took a deep breath and walked quickly right up to the bad-tempered old devil’s desk!

“Excuse me, Mr. Jones, would it be alright if I used the light-table again?” I asked loudly.

He looked up and stared at me coldly. “Yes,” came the curt reply. “Thank you.” I turned and went over to the table. John saw me, winked and

smiled. I had stood up to the old bully, something I would NEVER have done before. I had not let my fear stop me. I had gone through it, and out the other side. Acceptance really had worked.

*** About a year before I had been trying to get a posting to a weather

station nearer to my home, about 10 miles away to be exact, but had constantly been turned down. This had proved very frustrating and

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had been a major contributing factor to the build up to my first panic attack.

But now, somehow, it didn't seem to matter so much. I was just so glad to have been able to get back to work, to feel capable of doing it, that's all that really mattered. The attitude of acceptance was beginning to permeate my whole life. I was actually willing to simply let things be as they were anyway, without expectation, without the endless frustration that had characterised the early part of the year.

In November, I was asked to attend a medical in London. They didn't make it very clear why this was necessary; I guess I thought it was just routine, to make sure I was okay to continue.

It was to take place on a Monday, in Central London. I went down early as I usually did but stopped off in London. I even went via the Underground. A couple of things stand out very clearly about that morning. It was a bright crisp day, with a strong wind. I had to attend the medical at a place near St. James' Park, just down the road from Buckingham Palace. All the autumn leaves were swirling around and the Park looked very pretty. I walked around for a little while just to compose myself and then went to this imposing looking building where I was to have my medical.

I remember what happened very clearly. The doctor was elderly, very kind-looking, and softly spoken. He gave me a pretty thorough medical. Needless to say, my heart was beating quickly. He sat me down on his couch and very quietly said, "Just relax, this isn't going to take long."

He was so reassuring and friendly so that a few minutes later I had calmed right down. After he had taken my blood pressure he looked at me and said, "You see, it responds to how you think." Yes, that was it, exactly.

We talked for a little while about how I was getting on. He was so kind and understanding. As I got up to leave, he shook me firmly by the hand, looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're going to be fine now, really."

His words were spoken with such sincerity that I felt like a million dollars. I remember running down the steps to the Underground Station in sheer delight! I was going to be alright now; yes, indeed I was!

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It was a good day: no, a great day. It wasn't until December that I understood the implications of the medical. One afternoon, I was summoned into the Principal Scientific Officer's office. This was a rare privilege indeed. What on earth could he want?

"Ah, hello David, do come in." He had never been so friendly. Was he going to fire me?!

"I'm pleased to say that we have now arranged your posting. Can you start in two week's time?"

This was the posting I had so longed for, to be near home. For a minute I couldn't speak. I started to shake.

Finally, I stammered "W..Would it be alright if I made it after Christmas?" I had some leave to take, and this would be a good chance to go visit the place.

"Yes, I should think so, I'll just check with the postings officer." Then he looked at me wobbling about next to him and said "Sit down, David, before you fall down!" I did so, gratefully.

I was stunned, and decided to have an early night. I sat there thinking of the implications of what had happened: I could be near home … no more train journeys … I would earn some good money … I would be doing exactly what I loved to do. I sat there and savoured it all. This was so perfect. They had given me that medical to be sure I was fit for the new posting. I hadn't even mentioned it since I had returned to work.

There were now just two weeks before I was to leave. The first week was holiday so I decided to visit my new station. It was a bright cold December day when I arrived. I was shown round by the duty weather observer. This was heaven! The station was equipped with all the latest instrumentation; they even used to fly tethered balloons! I would have to be working shifts, including nights, but somehow that didn't really bother me.

As I left and walked to the bus stop to catch the bus home, my mind was whizzing through all the new things I would be doing. It was just so perfect! As I thought this, I vividly remember how suddenly the old fearful thoughts surfaced: the old ‘what-if’ questions. ‘What if’ I can't do the shift work? ‘What if’ I get tired and ill again?

I then had the staggering realisation that these thoughts had been almost engraved on my mind, and their return was just so

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unimportant; they were really only a bad habit! Just a stupid habit of thought! I saw them for what they really were. Throughout all the months I had been tortured by them, they had just told me a lot of lies. None of their dire predictions had come true; I was still here, I had survived, I had recovered, I had found the one thing I had longed for, to work near to home doing the work I loved to do. In that moment, a very poignant moment, I felt such compassion for the person I had been just a few short months ago; that poor, suffering and bewildered boy... who had now grown up.

I was living in such a state of excited expectancy all week. As an added bonus, one of the Apollo moon missions was taking place and I stayed up several nights to watch the live pictures. It is so sad to think of a whole generation having grown up not knowing the excitement of watching something like that happen live. It was staggering.

At last, the final week arrived and I was having mixed feelings about leaving. I was going to miss everyone so much, including my dear kind landlady who had 'mothered' me so well for so long, bless her heart.

Still, I had to move on now; it was right that I should and everything that had happened to me during the year had been preparing me for this.

On the final day, the last working day before Christmas, I decided to buy a few bottles of wine to share with everyone. That afternoon everyone gathered round me. I knew what was coming! Having had a couple of glasses of wine by then I wasn't too concerned about it! The manager thanked me for all the work I had done and presented me with a beautiful card and a pen. I was very touched by it all. Late that afternoon, just before I left, the door opened and in strode the Assistant Director! This was unheard of! 'ADs', as they were known, were rather god-like figures who were rarely seen outside of their sumptuous offices; others would be summoned to their presence, they would not normally go to see anyone. However, ours had dropped in to see me! Yes, me! He asked me how I was, wished me good luck in my new posting and shook my hand. I was so flabbergasted! All I could think of to say was, "Would you like a glass of wine?" To my amazement he said yes, and he stood there chatting to me for a few minutes whilst he drank it. Wow!

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Home time was approaching as I walked round all the offices and said my goodbyes. I hate goodbyes, I really do; I just want to cry! Everyone wished me luck, shook my hand, said lots of kind things. Of all the people I have worked with in my life, they were the nicest, kindest bunch I have ever known. I shall always remember them.

*** I met my Mum and Dad who had driven down to give me a lift

home. They were with my landlady. Poor dear thing, she started crying and nearly set me off too. I took her hand and held it; she had been so good to me, and that made the parting dreadfully hard. We drove off and I remember seeing her wave. It was truly sad.

1972 was drawing to a close. It was a year unlike any other, a year that I would often return to in my mind. It had seen such contrasts; from utter defeat and despair to triumph and happiness, all in but a few months. What I had learned was to serve me for many years to come. This was not the last time I would ever suffer the pain of anxiety and depression but it had marked the biggest turning point in my life. Never again would I be totally defeated.

For every one of you who has followed me through this story, I want to send a special message. I want to say how much sharing this has meant to me, how happy I am that you have taken the time and trouble to read it. Your life now may be full of sadness and pain, and you may feel little or no hope of it getting better. It may seem to you that you are destined to suffer a life of despair.

You have seen how despair can be left behind. For that is what we do: we leave behind the things we have outgrown, just like a butterfly, before stretching its beautiful wings, has to emerge from its chrysalis. If I have achieved anything by sharing this with you, it is a wish to have planted a seed of hope in your mind, and given you a glimpse of another kind of life that is waiting for you.

Fly, butterfly, fly.

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EPILOGUE

I wrote most of my book ‘Fear’ in 1998 and finally added to and completed it 5 years later. During this time, and especially in the new Millennium, by a most remarkable irony, I experienced the return of fear in its most intense form, including repeated, severe panic attacks.

My personal and professional life suffered a drastic decline; my business fell apart, my relationships with my family suffered dreadfully and I ended up in a miserable state of poverty, very nearly losing our home and going bankrupt. As in 1972, I was lost, desperately in need of answers.

One of the most remarkable features of the year 1972 described in ‘Fear’ was the way I was ‘educated’. A series of enlightenments occurred then, each expanding my life a little more, finally leading to a truly amazing transformation in my entire attitude to life, all of which happened in a mere 12 months.

During these last few years, although it has been hard for me to see this clearly, a similar, but much more far-reaching transformation has been taking place. The main difficulty through this time has been in understanding this, owing to the sheer length of time it was taking. Thus, much time has been given over to excessive hopelessness and despair - until I FINALLY figured out what was happening.

Once again, I have been ‘educated’. Much more slowly, to be sure, but the lessons have been profound. My understanding of fear in particular has deepened in a most dramatic and unexpected way.

1972 introduced me to intense fear, taught me the value of being true to who I was. These last 5 or so years have involved the stripping away, once again, of everything that gave my life meaning, purpose and direction. Circumstances have driven me mercilessly into a terrified state that seemed as if it would never end, or would only end with my inevitable demise, pushing me and pushing me to understand.

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In spite of all the despair throughout this time, I eventually realised something. This is all how it HAD to happen because the insight I have gained, the knowledge I have acquired, well only these precise conditions I have lived through could have achieved this.

This period of my life has been so unbelievable I have decided to chronicle all of it in a new book, ‘Fear Returns’ which will be published soon. These in-depth experiences of fear, all their endless variations, subtle shifts and new disturbing manifestations, I have been recorded throughout this time, in a voluminous daily journal.

From all this has emerged what I consider to be a new philosophy in relation to fear, a philosophy which teaches you how to finally USE fear as it was supposed to be used. Only when its true message is heeded, understood and acted upon, does it, at last, loosen its grip on you.

We are fortunate at this time to have more information, therapy and medical intervention to deal with panic, anxiety and depression than at any time. However, what I suffered from all those years ago, namely lack of explanation and understanding from the medical profession at the time, I believe still exists in a certain form today.

Whilst there is a remarkable amount of information on the physiological and mental symptoms of these illnesses, in broad terms, there still seems to be little detailed information on the fear experience. Or how being in a continuous state of fear for weeks, months and years actually feels. Indeed about how it impinges on every single area of one’s life, and about how to deal with the endless guilt, the damaged relationships, the constant failures, the hopelessness and the crushing feeling of being a totally useless individual.

It is this overall experience of fear and depression and its many ramifications I am covering in my new book. Not so much the physiological whys and where-fors (although you will find I have discovered some new information on the mechanics of the physical symptoms of fear) but the real, painful, depressing day-to-day reality, laid out in stark detail.

Sufferers need to be shown just how fear distorts every aspect of their existence, need to be able to find the meaning and purpose of fear as it relates to the unique circumstances of their lives. Above all, they need to be given real and lasting assurances, their lives CAN

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AND WILL change and improve, in a very particular way that only their experience of fear could bring about.

I think I have addressed all of this in my book and I can guarantee one thing - you will never, ever look at fear in the same way again.

Thank you for reading. I do hope you will join me again in ‘Fear Returns’. You will then see, as I have, fear is not the evil villain we have always thought it to be.