Rivethead - Ben Hamper [116]
It was one hellish weekend. The panic attacks descended on me one after another like sharks to a rib roast. I took the Inderal but its effects were minimal. If it slowed my heart down any, it sure as hell did nothing for the war going on inside my head. Mostly, I drank. I drank and paced from one room to the next. I was looking for something. I was searching for my shit.
On Monday morning, I called the Holly Road Mental Health Clinic. I asked for an appointment to see Dr. Lee but was told he was booked up to the twenty-third century. The receptionist said that a Dr. Kilaru had an opening the next day. I told her to write me down. In my shape, I'd have settled for Dr. Seuss.
Dr. Kilaru was a very short man, very pleasant and extremely dapper. Obviously, this loony business lent itself to the big buck. He was also very Indian. I had trouble making out his accent. Fortunately, I was called on to do most of the talking. The doctor listened intently, occasionally jotting notes, as I told him about my ugly metamorphosis from Rivethead to Rancidhead.
When I was finished, Dr. Kilaru put down his notepad and spoke. “Ben, you are suffering from rather intense episodes of panic attack syndrome. This stems from a condition called acute anxiety. There is not always a set pattern to when or where these attacks may occur. For treatment, I am going to recommend weekly psychiatric counseling and medication. I will prescribe for you a sedative called Xanax. This should help a great deal. You may still experience small amounts of anxiety. However it's the episodes of full-blown panic we are out to avoid.”
I couldn't have agreed more. For the past four days, I had been wondering if I'd ever be able to leave my apartment again. I asked the doctor if it was safe to assume I was not going insane.
“That is a frequent fear expressed by those who suffer these attacks. Often, a person will become convinced that he or she is having a complete breakdown, a heart attack or actually dying. You have a serious disorder. However I believe your sanity is fully intact.”
I had Dr. Kilaru write me out a medical excuse for the next couple days. What I needed was a few days off to check out this Xanax stuff and to make absolutely sure it would keep the demons at bay. After the previous week, I simply couldn't afford to hit the Rivet Line with anything less than a happy, healthy cerebellum.
The Xanax seemed to work well. Bolstered by my new pharmaceutical pal, I rejoined the fray. At the slightest hint of unsteadiness, I would scramble over to the drinking fountain and gulp down more medication. I would have swallowed cat puke, it didn't matter. I knew just one thing. I'd seen walls sweating and ceilings sag. I'd seen close friends of mine transform into various insects. I'd seen that great lake of fire roll down the aisle. If it were to spill over again, I was damn sure going to be clutchin’ on to something buoyant.
Mike Moore called me in August to tell me my article for his first issue of Mother Jones was being well received by the folks at the magazine. He wanted to know if I could take a couple weeks off in order to do some promoting for my cover story. For the first time in years, I headed off on vacation.
At one point, Mike and I did two newspaper interviews, three radio talk shows, three television guest spots in five different cities in the span of twelve hours. We crisscrossed the state from head to heinie. My futile requests to hit a bar somewhere in the middle of this marathon were quickly shot down. I sucked down the Xanax like Tic Tacs. The interviews all followed the same basic format. Moore would harangue everything under the sun while I sat at his elbow like a real numbskull. Anytime I was called on