Atlantic City, May 24 2005
Flashback about 5 years. I had gone out for an afternoon of shopping. I think I may have skipped breakfast but in those days, I hardly ever ate a morning meal anyway. In any case, I had what I thought was a coffee buzz going on. I felt ... off. I remember heading up the escalator above the Bed, Bath and Beyonce when it hit me. I was awash in fear. I wasn't even sure what was happening but I knew, I just knew that I needed to get back down to street level. I was having a panic attack. Not my first, but an early one. My heart was racing and I began to sweat. I had tunnel vision. I immediately turned on the balcony that the escalator let me off on, intending to go back down. Trouble was, with the tunnel vision came a sense of vertigo. I was sure that I would fall down the moving escalator if I attempted to ride it down. I was temporarily trapped as I paced back and forth between the escalator down to the plexiglass street level view, just 1/2 a floor below. Above me, I finally reasoned, was the second floor and I assumed, an elevator. The only acceptable mode of transport for me now besides the stairs. If down wasn't an option for me perhaps I could go up, and make my escape from there. More pacing between the up and down options ensued until, with a deep breath and a white knuckle grasp of the handrail, I made a harrowing and seemingly endless journey to the second floor. Whereupon a conveniently located elevator whisked me back to street level and I emerged, gasping for air and hands still shaking six blocks later headed for home.
As it sometimes did, this "event" left me feeling jumpy and exhausted the rest of the day. Only this one left another calling card. As is the case of many who experience panic, sometimes the place or thing that triggered the attack becomes something to fear and avoid. So it was the birth of my inability to use an escalator. All of them. Using an escalator up was problematic. Taking it down became impossible. While the flat out panic wouldn't always come back, the vertigo, the feeling of potentially tumbling forward and rolling head first would. It became simpler and almost an afterthought that whenever an escalator presented itself in my path, I would find the alternate staircase or elevator and take that route. Secretly, I viewed it as a weakness, an anomaly that embarrassed me. Over the years, as I've sought treatment for my general anxiety I've worked on my escalator phobia with a modicum of success. At first, I managed several trips upward intending to come back down but always defaulting to the moving box. Finally, after months of false starts I successfully managed to take a down escalator, at the KMart at Astor Place. Seriously, I was overjoyed. It was the highlight of that day. Fairly soon, I was able to tolerate the moving stairs in a variety of locations, with some restrictions. The space needed to be fairly well enclosed. Too much open air in my view would induce vertigo. Too much height was problematic for the same reason. Really big, steep rides were out for now. Gradually, each successive successful trip became less and less a white knuckle death grip exercise in cleansing breath, and more of an afterthought, I had rejoined the moving stairs movement. I still don't particularly like them when they're crowded, but I don't particularly like crowds. But coming upon a moving staircase presents no feeling positive or negative in me anymore.
I bring all this up because when spending time in Atlantic City with my family last week I noticed something. Whenever my mom or sister approached an escalator up or down, they both opted for the stairs. Every time. I assure you, it's not a fitness issue. It was only then it hit me like a clap of thunder. My mother's "fear" of escalators. How it gives her a feeling of falling. My sister too. It didn't manifest in her until her 30's. I had this information all along but failed to apply it to my own situation. I was amazed, noticing for the first time how the men in their lives either ride the escalator down and wait at the bottom, or simply accompany them on the staircase. How they've accepted what I considered a failing to be conquered, and incorporated it into their daily routine. So why did I make myself out to be some staircase challenged freak? And why didn't I know that, since it obviously affects exactly one half of my immediate family, the damn problem was partially genetic? Maybe it's best I didn't know. I may have not even tried to fix it. Still, it's nice to no longer be afraid of the escalator.
Flashback about 5 years. I had gone out for an afternoon of shopping. I think I may have skipped breakfast but in those days, I hardly ever ate a morning meal anyway. In any case, I had what I thought was a coffee buzz going on. I felt ... off. I remember heading up the escalator above the Bed, Bath and Beyonce when it hit me. I was awash in fear. I wasn't even sure what was happening but I knew, I just knew that I needed to get back down to street level. I was having a panic attack. Not my first, but an early one. My heart was racing and I began to sweat. I had tunnel vision. I immediately turned on the balcony that the escalator let me off on, intending to go back down. Trouble was, with the tunnel vision came a sense of vertigo. I was sure that I would fall down the moving escalator if I attempted to ride it down. I was temporarily trapped as I paced back and forth between the escalator down to the plexiglass street level view, just 1/2 a floor below. Above me, I finally reasoned, was the second floor and I assumed, an elevator. The only acceptable mode of transport for me now besides the stairs. If down wasn't an option for me perhaps I could go up, and make my escape from there. More pacing between the up and down options ensued until, with a deep breath and a white knuckle grasp of the handrail, I made a harrowing and seemingly endless journey to the second floor. Whereupon a conveniently located elevator whisked me back to street level and I emerged, gasping for air and hands still shaking six blocks later headed for home.
As it sometimes did, this "event" left me feeling jumpy and exhausted the rest of the day. Only this one left another calling card. As is the case of many who experience panic, sometimes the place or thing that triggered the attack becomes something to fear and avoid. So it was the birth of my inability to use an escalator. All of them. Using an escalator up was problematic. Taking it down became impossible. While the flat out panic wouldn't always come back, the vertigo, the feeling of potentially tumbling forward and rolling head first would. It became simpler and almost an afterthought that whenever an escalator presented itself in my path, I would find the alternate staircase or elevator and take that route. Secretly, I viewed it as a weakness, an anomaly that embarrassed me. Over the years, as I've sought treatment for my general anxiety I've worked on my escalator phobia with a modicum of success. At first, I managed several trips upward intending to come back down but always defaulting to the moving box. Finally, after months of false starts I successfully managed to take a down escalator, at the KMart at Astor Place. Seriously, I was overjoyed. It was the highlight of that day. Fairly soon, I was able to tolerate the moving stairs in a variety of locations, with some restrictions. The space needed to be fairly well enclosed. Too much open air in my view would induce vertigo. Too much height was problematic for the same reason. Really big, steep rides were out for now. Gradually, each successive successful trip became less and less a white knuckle death grip exercise in cleansing breath, and more of an afterthought, I had rejoined the moving stairs movement. I still don't particularly like them when they're crowded, but I don't particularly like crowds. But coming upon a moving staircase presents no feeling positive or negative in me anymore.
I bring all this up because when spending time in Atlantic City with my family last week I noticed something. Whenever my mom or sister approached an escalator up or down, they both opted for the stairs. Every time. I assure you, it's not a fitness issue. It was only then it hit me like a clap of thunder. My mother's "fear" of escalators. How it gives her a feeling of falling. My sister too. It didn't manifest in her until her 30's. I had this information all along but failed to apply it to my own situation. I was amazed, noticing for the first time how the men in their lives either ride the escalator down and wait at the bottom, or simply accompany them on the staircase. How they've accepted what I considered a failing to be conquered, and incorporated it into their daily routine. So why did I make myself out to be some staircase challenged freak? And why didn't I know that, since it obviously affects exactly one half of my immediate family, the damn problem was partially genetic? Maybe it's best I didn't know. I may have not even tried to fix it. Still, it's nice to no longer be afraid of the escalator.
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