My Long Tunnel of Anxiety and Depression – part 3: continuation and end

I shared my recent mental health struggles in My Long Dark Tunnel of Anxiety and Depression, Part 1 and Part 2. In this final text, I would like to address the topic of the beginnings of panic attacks, my search for the causes of trauma and the general feeling that my whole future was falling apart when I was in the tunnel. Finally, I ask the crucial question: “Am I cured?”.

The beginnings

My first panic attack took place in 1998, during a parade with the 2e Bataillon Royal 22e Régiment in Quebec City. That day, I was receiving a new platoon 2i/c (second in command), a warrant officer who had abused his authority (without details) during a training phase as an infantry officer. I didn’t want to see him again at all, let alone have him as my deputy.

That morning I stood on parade, the troops in my back, as usual. After a few minutes, I felt the adjutant’s gaze weighing on me; it was like his eyes were two lasers burning the scalp behind my head. Suddenly, I started shaking like a leaf, my heart was pounding, I was sweating and I just wanted to disappear, but I stayed where I was (you need to know that I’m very conceited… ). After the parade, I was completely exhausted, burnt out, I sat on the floor on the steps leading up to my office and I didn’t know how I was going to get through the day. I was 22 (!) years old, no history of mental health; I didn’t fully understand what had just happened. Subsequently, I would sometimes shake – not as vigorously – when I had my back to the troops, only when they were behind me, not in front of me, in the same manner as on the initial parade. It’s like my brain interpreted having my back to the troops as a threat. It ended up fading over the years.

The mother of all panic attacks!

Fast forward to 2010, I’m at the cinema in Quebec City with my 10 year old nephew, there are a few minutes left to Avatar when, suddenly, I realize that I can hardly feel my hands and that my left arm is numb. As the doctor recently told me that I have cholesterol and a bit of high blood pressure, I’m thinking I might be having a heart attack. I leave the cinema, completely terrified, I rush towards the bathrooms, I hyperventilate, then I tell myself that I’d better alert someone rather than die alone in the toilet! I walk up to a cashier, slouch on her counter and, panting, I ask her to call an ambulance because I’m having a heart attack. She gives me a nervous laugh – I don’t think she’s taken a first aid course… – so I have to add: « I’m serious. » Someone finally calls the emergency services; they take me behind the counter and sit me down on a crate. The nephew finally finds me (poor sweetheart!) and the paramedics arrive, do their test, then tell me, a little uneasily, that my heart is giving no indication that it is going to give way. They offer me two choices: leave the cinema on foot to my car, or on a stretcher to the ambulance. I opt for the stretcher; I’m not going to show the young cashier that there was nothing serious about my condition!

On the way to the hospital, the paramedic announces on the radio that he has a patient with a code I don’t understand. Why didn’t he just say that he thought I was having a heart attack, or, better yet, that he suspected a possible panic attack? I am only beginning to suspect that the problem is not in my heart but in my head. At the hospital we repeat the same inconclusive tests but no one explains to me what they suspect, perhaps to spare me.

Following this incident, I did some research on the Internet and finally understood that it was the amygdala in my emotional brain that triggered a « fight or flight » response to prepare me to face serious danger, perceived and not real. I laughed a little about the incident with my family and tried to forget it all. I don’t remember having any other panic attacks before the one in the summer of 2022 and the recent attacks that sent my life into the tunnel, a story I tell here.

Attitude towards mental health problems

During all my years in the infantry, I didn’t even think once about seeking help for my panic attacks, which were fortunately limited to parades only. Other than the stress related to these parades, I didn’t really suffer from anxiety. Also, and above all, there was still no openness on the part of superiors, colleagues and subordinates regarding mental health problems. If you don’t know – or don’t remember – what the attitude towards these problems was at the turn of the millennium, I refer you to the report: Off the Rails: Crazy Train Float Mocks Operational Stress Injuries Sufferers, dating back to 2002. I don’t think I need to say more…

The general attitude was that mental health problems stemmed from a weakness of character, that one did not have « toughness of mind », as Bob puts it in the movie Les Boys. I learned quickly that in combat arms it was better to keep my emotions inside. A fellow warrant officer recently told me that she had received the following advice from her immediate supervisor at the start of her career: « You need to learn to separate your personal problems from your professional problems. » As if one could enter the workplace and suddenly forget everything that is happening outside. Basically, it was: handle your problems on your own, we don’t want to hear about them here. It goes without saying that mentalities have evolved a lot since that time.

The search for trauma

As I did not seek medical help at the time, it is difficult for me today to understand the possible causes of my initial panic attacks. When I met a psychiatrist for the first time, in 2023, so 25 years after the first attack, she made me feel that there must be one or more original traumas. However, no matter how much I searched, I couldn’t find any « big » trauma (a term which designates the painful emotional consequences that experiencing a trying event can cause) in my past; I had a happy childhood, I had loving parents, I was a sporty teenager, surrounded by friends, and I did not experience any « trauma » during my 5 years at military college.

I was looking for big trauma – being abused, seeing or experiencing atrocities, etc. – which I couldn’t find. Not finding any major trauma made me feel even weaker! How could I suffer from anxiety without major trauma, when people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) had a « valid » reason – in my head – to suffer! I hadn’t seen anyone get blown up, I hadn’t seen a child get killed, and yet I was displaying some of the symptoms of PTSD!

Recently, very recently, and it helped me a lot, I understood that there is no point in looking for a big trauma, I won’t find one. On the other hand, I found what I call a series of « mini-traumas » linked – above all – to my training phases as an infantry officer. I will come back to these mini-traumas later, but first I must explain my hypothesis in relation to these small traumas.

A big trauma is like a big hole in a canoe. You can see it, you can plug the breach. A person who has experienced a major trauma will know where his/her anxiety comes from and will be able to address the cause, with techniques such as Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) for example. On the other hand, having mini-traumas is the same as having lots of little holes in your canoe. You don’t realize it right away. When you realize it, you are up to our knees in water and struggling to find the cause. And yet, the canoe fills with water in the same way as if there were a big hole. The damage is the same in the end.

My possible mini-traumas

I wrote above that my first crisis was linked to having to work very closely with a former instructor who used strong-arm tactics with young candidates at the Gagetown military base. The warrant officer didn’t beat me, nor the other instructors for that matter, but let’s say that on phases 2, 3, and 4, so three full summers at the infantry school, the instructors gave us a hard time. I found the experience in phase 2 particularly painful because the constant pressure from the instructors created, in the long run, an unhealthy climate, a toxic climate among the group of candidates. Quite simply, we hated each other, profoundly. One of the candidates was even the victim of a “code red”, a practice inspired by the film A Few Good Men released in 1992.

I hated phase 2 so much that I wanted to avoid going back to Gagetown for the other phases at all costs; that says it all. Upon receiving this particularly difficult warrant officer, it is possible that my painful memories from the infantry phases returned suddenly, leading to my first panic attack, and the others that followed.

The future collapsing

I would like to add one aspect here that will make you understand why things are so difficult in the tunnel. When you have difficulty going to the convenience store to buy a pint of milk, all your ambitions, all your dreams come crashing down. I had hopes of returning to Belgium to teach NATO Special Forces, I wanted to take on big contracts in other departments, I had career ambitions, but I had difficulty doing simple things like going to a restaurant with friends. There was a huge gap between my expectations and my reality, what psychotherapist Russ Harris calls The Reality Slap, or also the reality gap. Harris explains that we suffer greatly when there is a gap between the reality we desire and the reality we have. He writes:

I call this the “reality gap” because on one side is the reality we have, and on the other, the reality we want. And the greater the gap between these two realities, the more painful feelings arise: envy, jealousy, fear, disappointment, shock, sorrow, sadness, anger, anxiety, indignation, fear, guilt, resentment; maybe even hatred, despair or disgust.

I received this “reality slap in the face” and it completely shocked me. In my tunnel, I tried to live day by day because thinking about the future depressed me deeply.


Finally, you may be wondering, am I cured? I came out of depression, the sky is blue, it’s sunny outside, it’s spring time, in my heart and in my head. Still, I don’t know if one can be completely cured from anxiety. I live with my anxiety, I gave it a name (Georges), it’s a therapeutic technique to help accept anxiety. Georges has been gone for a few weeks, but I have no illusions, he will come back. A relapse is almost inevitable according to studies. When George comes back, I will let him in, serve him some tea and let him know that I won’t be bothering with him anymore because I am ENGAGED in other, much more rewarding activities.

My mother-in-law, who has suffered from anxiety for over 40 years, often told me that a crisis was an opportunity for change. I just checked the origin of the word « crisis » on the Net and the truth is even better: the term « crisis » comes from the Greek « krisis » which means a turning point in an illness. From this point on, things can get worse or better. For the last 20 months, I have been desperately searching for the Eric from before, the one who was confident, laughing, playful, adventurous. At the exit of the tunnel, I find another Eric. He has found his old qualities and his old faults, but he is also more patient, more empathetic, less transactional; basically, more attentive to others. I didn’t think I would find this. And I must admit that I prefer the new version.

Over the past year, I have never told my children that I love them so much; it’s partly because I was afraid of losing them when thinking of leaving this world. Last week, while going to take the little one to school by bike, I sincerely thanked the school crossing guards for being there every morning — ok, they seemed more surprised than happy, but I imagine how they smiled afterwards!

Over the past few months, I have started to accept the help that my loved ones have given me. A friend offered me a weekly 30-minute meeting where I can, if I want, talk about my problems. Don’t look for me on Friday mornings at 9am, I’m in what we call our weekly « chit-chat » (or jasette, in French).

Since I opened up about my mental health problems, I have received hundreds of testimonials from colleagues and friends who told me that they were experiencing much the same things as me. According to my personal estimate, almost 50% of military personnel (active and retired) have suffered or are suffering from mental health problems, to varying degrees. I write these articles for them. I also write them for those who take care of them. And I write them for those who still believe that all it takes is a kick in the butt to break out of your torpor.

Some colleagues and friends approached me to ask for my help. I’m far from being a therapist, but I prescribed a weekly 30-minute « chat » with me and I just held my first meetings by videoconference. My goal of paying it forward is achieved.

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