Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 8: Peaking

Letting the door shut as softly and quietly as he could behind him, Scott took a moment to survey the room they were in. It was a tiny practice room, no larger than 8 feet wide or deep, meant for working one on one with song writers. There was an ordinary upright piano with a bench along one of the side walls, with a small lamp and a box of tissues sitting on the corner. A few swivel chairs neatly lined the back wall and a white board hung on the wall opposite the piano. All of the walls were lined with soundproofing foam and the entire space was illuminated by harsh fluorescent office lighting.

Finally, Scott's eyes settled over Mitch. Poor Mitchy, he was in pretty rough shape. He stood almost hunched over in the middle of the room with his back to the door. His arms were wrapped around his stomach and he was clinging to his sides so tightly that Scott was sure there would be angry red lines from where his nails were digging into his own skin. His shoulders were rising and falling rapidly, too rapidly, as he sucked in breath after unsuccessful breath. His legs were trembling as his hyperventilations were interrupted sporadically with gut wrenching wheezes and coughs. Scott didn't need to see his face to know his eyes would be squeezed tightly shut as tears flowed freely down his face.

Scott ached to rush to his best friend's side, yet he didn't move from his position just inside the door. "Mitchy? It's me, Scott? Can I please help you?" he called softly, not wanting to startle him.

Silence, save for Mitch's labored breathing.

Scott tried again with just a touch more authority behind his voice.

"Mitch, it's Scott. Can you hear me?" Scott waited patiently for any sign of acknowledgement. Nothing came.

As per their longstanding agreement, he would try to obtain a response one more time before he launched into their carefully crafted "Emergency Response Plan". They'd set it in place around the same time that they had auditioned for the Sing Off so that the band and crew would be able to help him even if he went nonverbal during the peak of an attack, such as he had in this moment. The checklist of sorts provided everyone, including Mitch, peace of mind that they could properly care for him until he was able to communicate what he needed for himself.

"Mitch, I'm right here. This is number three, can you hear me?" Scott said in earnest. Again he garnered no response from Mitch, so he began to take careful control of the situation.

"You're alright Mitch," Scott cooed, "I'm going to start moving towards you, and the lighting is going to change in about ten seconds, alright?"

The easiest place to start was by fixing the immediate environment. Seeing as there was no easy way to get Mitch to a more familiar place such as their car, Scott would have to make do with what they had here. He continued to quietly narrate his every motion as he shuffled over to the lamp resting on the piano and turned in on. Then, he returned to the panel of switches by the door and turned off the harsh lighting overhead. That, Scott hoped, would take care of any visual stimulation, and the sound proofing on the walls, he realised, was actually perfect for blocking out any overwhelming noise from the world outside.

"So dizzy. Can't move...Help me," came Mitch's weak, panic laced voice. Each syllable was punctuated by a painfully sharp, shallow breath and he still refused to open his eyes.

"Hey. Hey. I'm right here." Scott quickly crossed over to face him and held his arms slightly outstretched. "I won't let you fall. Let's get you sitting. My forearms are right in front of you. Can you grab onto them?"

Mitch nodded stiffly and reached out to latch on to Scott. Scott briefly considered pulling over one of the swivel chairs so Mitch wouldn't have to walk at all, but he quickly dismissed the idea in favor of the far sturdier looking piano bench. As slowly and as gently as he could, he used his voice and Mitch's grip on his arms to guide him to stand in front of the short end of the bench. Then, moving to his side, Scott transferred Mitch's trembling hands onto his right forearm, and rested his left arm on the middle of Mitch's back to help guide him into a seated position. The whole time he kept his eyes carefully trained on Mitch to see if he was pushing for too much or needed to try something else.

"You are safe here, Mitch. You're doing so well. Now, I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you do that?"

No, but for Scott he would try anything. Mitch forced his eyes open, blinking a few times in the now soft, dim, light that swathed the room. As his vision came in and out of focus, he saw that Scott was now seated criss cross on the floor in front of and below him. Finding Scott's face too intimidating to look at for the moment, Mitch looked down to his lap where he was surprised to find that Scott was also rubbing the backs of his hands soothingly with his thumbs.

"Good job, Mitchy," Scott praised softly. "I don't expect much, just watch my thumbs on your hands, okay? Focus on that."

He gave Mitch a moment of silence before pushing for anything again. "Now, can you breathe with me? You need to slow down your breathing so you can feel less dizzy."

Scott modeled a deep inhale through his nose and a controlled exhale through his mouth. On the second breath, Mitch tried to follow suit, but his watery eyes widened as the breath caught in his tight throat and he simply just coughed and sputtered.

"Shhh...Shhh...You're ok. We'll try again. I'll count this time. Ready?" Scott paused for a moment to allow Mitch to gather himself and waited for a tiny nod before beginning to count slowly and clearly. "In. Two. Three. Four. Hold it - and out. Two. Three. Four."

Scott repeated this mantra over and over again, being sure to mark good cycles small words of praise and calm phrases of encouragement. After a few minutes of guiding him through this particular breathing exercise, he could tell that Mitch's frantic gasps for air had leveled out into conscious inhales and exhales. Things got a little bit more difficult to navigate from here, but the worst of the attack was thankfully over.

A/N: Thoughts? Let me know what you think!

Also, the "Emergency Response Plan" is a real strategy you can employ if you or someone you love lives with anxiety/panic, even if the person doesn't go nonverbal. I have found it makes it easier on me if there are a set of directions in place before an anxiety event arises because it sets my boundaries and ensures that *someone* knows how to help. I've even had individuals tell me after the fact that they appreciated knowing without a doubt what would help me until I could help myself. In general, having a response plan in place makes me a lot more secure both going into daunting situations and just my day to day life.