So I am going to tell you about therapy because it's a mysterious process to me sometimes, and yet it works so brilliantly that I keep thinking if I just write down the order of steps I'll be able to see how the magic happens. This is my third bout with panic attacks in 17 years. Each recurrence is not a matter of backsliding but of not having identified or adequately addressed the fundamental problem(s). The first two rounds of therapy took care of years of behavioral and mental bad habits. This time, I don't have to do that, we're going straight for the foundation. I can't get there by talking to friends or taking yoga or cutting out the stress factors in my life. Those treat the symptoms. I'm going for a cure. It's a job for professionals.

We start out each session either talking about how I'm doing, or I launch into what I've been thinking about. I explain myself, search for reasons, try to find the triggers for the attacks. The therapist is there to help me map out the behavioral patterns and identify the belief systems running inside my head. Naturally I think it's pretty interesting most of the time even if the reason I'm there is no fun at all. A lot of the sessions are tough because I don't want to deal with all the ugly, sad, painful things that are causing or contributing to the panic attacks. Sometimes I can't deal with them. I refuse to talk about something or I get my mule shoes on and insist the therapist is wrong or confused about a point.

The therapist says things like, "Okay, wait, I don't get why, tell me why," and I do, and he insists I clarify what I said or did, now or in the past, or maybe he asks how it relates to whatever I thought we were talking about, and eventually the "real" explanation, the base belief for my action or thoughts comes tumbling out of my mouth. And then we talk about that after I get over the shock of hearing what I've just said.

Because a lot of the psychological subroutines are bizarre and logically suspect. Certain decisions turn out to be based on an idea I formed when I was 5, 8, 10: ages when I was still developing, ages when the brain isn't capable of certain abstract concepts. I understand the world differently now, have done so for years, but I haven't changed the way I make those kinds of decisions. It's so unpalatable to think that I haven't discarded obviously false or incomplete information. How can a grown person go through life still worried about the equivalent of monsters under the bed? I get so mad sometimes.

Occasionally, I get mad at the therapist because he's pushing a sore spot over and over. I mean, I pay him to, but still. The sorest spots are music, my identity as a musician, my self image as an artist, and why I've dissociated myself from those things. On Wednesday I was talking about having to take piano in order to graduate. The therapist asked if the thought caused a panic attack. Nah, I said, I wasn't thrilled but I wasn't freaking out about it. That was interesting, he thought, in light of the many problems cutting myself off from music had caused over the years.

Ha, I said, but that's because I'm not a pianist. No ego identification there. I think the only thing that would trigger a panic attack would be if I were to sign up for a choir class.

Oh, he says alertly, like a hound picking up the scent, then do it. Go ahead and sign up and see if it triggers a panic attack.

Are you nuts? I said, scandalized. I'm not going to do that.

Just do it, he said. It'll be really interesting to see if you do get one. You don't have to actually take the class.

NO! I shouted, practically jumping out of my chair. I will NOT sign up for choir just to see if it triggers panic attacks! Forget it! I'd rather... I wouldn't... I'd sooner strip NAKED and stand in the middle of the street than sign up for choir!

I was trembling and near to tears. Whoa, whoa, he said, that's okay, you don't have to. But it's interesting that you equate singing in a choir with exposing yourself. Your true self.

I think we were both a little dumbfounded by the revelation. We spent the rest of the session talking about how artists deal with putting themselves on the line, deal with competition and critical reviews. How to hold on to your self-esteem and passion for what you love to do without needing other people to approve. How to be true to yourself in the face of rejection, or mockery, or well-meaning criticism. It's not performance anxiety that gets to me. I like performing; god knows I'm happy being the center of attention. It seems I confused controlling what other people thought of me as an artist with controlling what they thought of me.

The Leonids were spectacular tonight. Bright streaks arcing through the night, illuminating the dark, leaving long trails of light in their paths. Like art. Like artists.

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