National Post (National Edition)

Sleepless nights are real, and terrifying, too

Panic attacks while on road can be fierce

- STEVE SIMMONS

On my first night in South Korea three winters ago, I bolted from a partial sleep in my tiny bed, out of my tiny dorm room and ran recklessly to nowhere in the middle of the night.

I was sane enough, momentaril­y, to grab a toque and gloves and the warmest jacket I had before heading out in the dark, running crazed, running scared, trying to find something.

I just didn't know what. I ran to bus stops and found no buses. I asked middle of the night Olympic volunteers for directions and hardly anyone spoke English or knew what I was asking. It was freezing cold, and I needed to run somewhere — and believe me I'm not a runner — I was just trying to escape.

Escape from what — or why — I never know.

Panic attacks can do that to you. They're unreasonab­le and unrelentin­g. They come out of nowhere, usually in the dark of the night, and take control of all reason, control of your speeding mind. You shake on the outside, but mostly you shake on the inside. You can try and calm down but you can't. Your pulse races and your forehead sweats and with me, you have to leave, you have to go somewhere.

You just don't know where. Or how. And certainly why.

On this night, my first in Pyeongchan­g for the 2018 Winter Olympics, I finally calmed down when I exhausted myself or just succumbed to the frigid temperatur­e. But I was lost, physically and mentally, in a village of media apartment buildings that all looked the same, I didn't know which one was mine. I didn't have any bearings. I hadn't completely calmed down and had to find my way to the check-in building to give them my name and show them my key and ask for directions for what was going to be home for the next three weeks.

This wasn't the first panic attack in my life and wouldn't be the last. I have had them in Russia and China, in Italy and Greece, in hotel rooms in Montreal, Boston, San Francisco and Cleveland: One is never like the other, except for the need to immediatel­y escape.

In Cleveland once I got woken up in a lobby chair by a hotel security guard, thinking I was a vagrant. I had to explain about the combinatio­n of insomnia, claustroph­obia and panic attacks that had taken over my life: He was nice enough to leave me alone.

One night in Montreal, in town for the Canadian Open tennis tournament, I ran from my hotel room, bolted to the lobby, wound up across the street in a 24-hour Tim Hortons, and sat there most the night where tea and a bagel or two brought me back to earth.

This isn't new for me. The insomnia started in 1997 after I tore my Achilles tendon playing tennis and then had great difficulty sleeping. The panic attacks came on, sadly, after I went for insomnia treatments. I enrolled in a three-day sleep clinic at Toronto Western Hospital. After almost no sleep and three almost violent panic attacks — one seemingly after the other on the first night — with wires sticking out of almost every part of my upper body and face, I pulled out all the wires, left the hospital at around 4 a.m. and drove home.

I have been to four different sleep clinics. I have been to psychologi­sts and doctors and naturopath­s and marijuana clinics and hypnotists and acupunctur­e specialist­s. I have tried just about every drug you can try, those legal, those not, heard every relaxation tape, tried a drink before bed, tried more exercise, tried less exercise; tried cutting back on caffeine. After 20 some years of trying I'm rather exhausted.

And totally thankful to not have the kind of job where I have to wake up early in the morning and be in the office by 8:30.

The sleep has got worse over the years. The panic attacks, thankfully, have become less frequent. Especially now that profession­al travel has been put on hold. The claustroph­obia is mostly under control

My first night in Korea was not unlike my first night in Russia, before the Sochi

ONE IS NEVER LIKE THE OTHER, EXCEPT FOR THE NEED TO ESCAPE.

Olympics. After travelling for more than 24 hours to get there, I checked into my room, which looked like a garage, large and cold, with a single bed, a wooden chair beside it and not a piece of furniture besides that.

Calling the room spartan would be exaggerati­ng. I tried to calm down, tried to stay in my bed, tried to stay in my room. But every time I closed my eyes, it happened again. The panics began.

There was nowhere to go, really. We were living in a compound. I think I was awake for 72 hours straight when I first got to Russia and finally called my editor in Toronto.

I told her what I have told few people before. That I was breaking down. I told her this wasn't working. She told me, rather gently, that if I wanted to come home, I could. We agreed to give it one more day. I somehow got through the day. And as always happens at the Olympics, the work took over.

A psychologi­st I had success with years ago — when I needed help getting on airplanes — told me that I shouldn't try to understand mental illness. I told her I was logical and needed to know what was going on. She said there was nothing logical about what was happening to me. What I needed, she said, were solutions.

Today is a day to begin solutions. To talk to someone. To no longer hide. Today is Bell Let's Talk Day so let's follow along, let's open up and let's talk.

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