Yes, I actually have an app on my phone in case of anxiety.

The worst panic attacks are the ones where I can't figure out what triggered them, even after I've had some time to calm down and think about it. My explanation for the one I had last night was that it might have been a reaction to something I ate. Maybe there was a load of sulfites in my food that I wasn't aware of. That's the easy explanation.

The not-so-easy explanation is that I may have been triggered by the day's activities. Matt and I met his parents at their church for a lengthy memorial service for first-responders (police and firefighters), timed, no doubt, for the anniversary of 9/11. Matt's parents are both in the church choir, and they asked us if we would join them for the service and then for dinner afterward.

Don't get me wrong. I like their church. It's pretty. The people there seem fairly open-minded, though I wouldn't just blurt out that I'm bisexual, Pagan and in an open marriage with Matt. They don't do the fire-and-brimstone schtick, and seem to keep to the theme of salvation, which is fine with me. But this service irked me for several reasons.

First of all, it was ridiculously drawn-out. The program was about a dozen full-size pages long, and somehow, four-line psalms ended up becoming ten minutes of off-key choral warbling (bless'em, but they're just not that great). The ancient wooden pews were very hard on my back, and even though I'd doubled up on my pain meds (by accident, mind you), I was in agony after the first hour. I had to ask Matt to go out to the car and get my travel pillow to sit on, which relieved the pain somewhat, but I was horrified to realise that the pillow still smelled of the meat Matt left in the trunk of the car (another story altogether) and I knew the lady behind me, a friend of Matt's parents, could smell it. Ugh.

Secondly, well, I'm not Christian. I don't have a problem with Jesus or his teachings (mostly), but I do have a problem with Christian churches. I was bothered by the fact that it was automatically assumed that all of those who died were Christian, or if they weren't Christian, that they would somehow end up in the Christian version of heaven. And of course, there was the reminder that Jesus said, "No one comes to the Father except through me," one of my least-favourite verses. It is so often used by Christians as "proof" that theirs is the "one true faith," invalidating any other spiritual path.

Anyone who had been baptized Christian was invited to take part in holy communion. I had taken communion at the church before, for the Christmas service, but this time, I declined. I decided that if they were only inviting certain people to their table, and not everyone, I would not partake. I am baptized Christian, technically, but I do not practice nor preach. Though I acknowledge and respect all forms of spirituality, I have chosen to give my loyalty to my gods, whom have redeemed me and given me strength.

Anyway. It was a two-hour service, and by the end of it, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. We went back to Matt's parents' place, supposedly to have dinner, but they suggested going out. I would rather have stayed there, where I am comfortable, and there are adorable cats to pet, than go to the dinky little sports bar where they decided to take us. I was already feeling anxious. The warning signs were there, but I did my best to ignore them.

By the end of the meal, though, I could not ignore it any more. The chill began at the back of my head and spilled down into my core, pooling in my abdomen, making me feel sick. I said nothing. Matt was engaged in conversation with his parents. They did not notice I was in distress, and I did not want them to. I didn't feel I could move at that moment, so I began to take slow, deep breaths, and I reached for the Let Panic Go app on my phone. The app tells me stuff I need to hear.

It's like having someone tell me to just breathe, just relax, you aren't dying, you aren't going crazy, your heart isn't going to fail, you're not going to collapse. You're fine. So I just concentrate on the leaf. Make the leaf go up and down by touching the screen, in time with my breath. Finally, I was calm enough to excuse myself to the bathroom, where, of course, I had an IBS attack, and I continued to use my app.

Hooray for technology. To anyone looking at me while I sat at the table, it must have seemed I was just reading something on my phone. Matt didn't even have any idea. I guess hiding it like that is a survival instinct. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. On one hand, perhaps keeping my body calm and focused helps end the panic, but on the other hand, it prevents me from action, such as going to the bathroom and splashing cool water on my face, looking in the mirror to focus on the here and now.

Anyway, yeah. Sick of this shit. It took meditation plus two klonopin to bring myself down from this one. It wasn't as bad as the medication-induced "grand mal" panic episode I had a few weeks ago, but I felt like it could have gotten to that point had I not been able to go home, take a cool shower, and relax.

There is nothing I hate more than fear of nothing.