This post is about FEAR. It’s about what happens when I need to run away…and I can’t. OK, that’s a strange way to begin a blog post and you might be wondering what I’m on about with that statement. Quite honestly though, the understanding behind it has been a recent epiphany for me! I’m confusing you though and I need to start at the beginning. 😏

I’ve been going through a very difficult time. Actually, that’s rather an understatement as I’ve been so stressed that the panic attacks I first experienced after Norbert died have returned. I hadn’t had a panic attack for ages and I thought they were part of a traumatic past….so it has been scary to go back there.

What has happened? You really don’t need all the detail but suffice it to say that since I signed the contract that signified the sale of my house, it has been a spiral downward due mainly to the fact that I haven’t been able to find another place to go, and the date I have to leave is looming closer. Add to that some upsetting issues with agents and buyers and a houseful of stuff that needs sorting, packing and boxing….not to mention the whole pandemic thing which has prevented family being able to come up and help.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I found myself standing in the kitchen with my heart pounding, hands shaking, sweating and trying not to be sick. I was feeling scared, and very, very alone. Unlike the first time after Norbert died when I thought I was having a heart attack, this time I at least knew that it was a panic attack. Full on….like I was back at the beginning of the nightmare.