Five Minutes For France
A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear
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A few years ago I would avoid a short trip to Seattle. Now I'm bound for places like France, Spain, and Italy. Even some island called Madeira. Jerry and I will travel 5,670 miles from our home.
To many, this is a normal routine of travel. But for me, a recovering sufferer of anxiety, this is a huge step. In my thirties, I had panic attacks for no apparent reason. I didn't realize it at the time, but the attacks jet-propelled my spells of anxiety and depression into full gear.
Panic hit when I least suspected. While seated in a chair at the hair salon, my heart suddenly pounded a million miles per minute. Frightened and flushed and breathless came over me out of nowhere. With my hair wrapped in aluminum foil, I looked like some kind of extra-planetary being out of Star Wars. Where could I run? Where could I hide?
Panic snuck up on me in the grocery store, smacking me head-on as I searched for peanut butter. Bam. My heart gallops. My head throbs. My thoughts collide into confusion. I'm going to faint. I've got to get to the car before I collapse on the jars of Jiff and Skippy.
That was my thinking. Faint in my car rather than suffer the embarrassment of passing out in the peanut butter aisle. I realize now it wasn't the best decision. Wouldn't I want to ask for help rather than hope to die in peaceful solitude inside my car? Yet, my concern for my health took a back seat to my concern for my dignity. I focused on the fear, not on solutions. After trying to cope with panic attacks for several years, agoraphobia joined in. It was like the panic attacks hollered over to agoraphobia, "Hey, I'm exhausted from doing this all alone. Lend me a hand. Let's make her really crazy!"
Agoraphobia is a widely misunderstood term. It's literal definition suggests a fear of "open spaces." However, I wasn't necessarily afraid of open spaces. I was afraid of the panicky feelings, the outcome of panic attacks. Therefore, I avoided places where I thought panic might arise. I avoided elevators, bridges, airplanes, driving at night, social gatherings, parking garages, and any place I believed held potential harm.
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About the Book
Out of anxious childhood beginnings, Bronwyn Wilson developed an anxiety disorder. She worried about things that would never happen. She traveled no further than the grocery store. She quit driving over bridges, riding in elevators, entering parking garages, going out at night, and refused to ever board an airplane. As she worried about possible dangers, her world grew smaller while physical ailments grew larger. Doctors couldn’t find a biological cause for her hives, dizziness, and intestinal issues. Searching for answers led her to ask, how has this happened? What is anxiety? Where does it come from? Where does it lead? In her memoir Five Minutes For France, Wilson travels through the Mediterranean using the new coping skills she has learned.
How does she handle dangling in a gondola high above the town of Funchal, Portugal? How will she cope when she discovers herself sliding down a mile-long road in a wicker basket? What happens when she wanders the streets of Barcelona searching for underwear?
Wilson’s story offers a message of hope and humor for those suffering from anxiety, or for those who know someone living with it, or for those simply wanting a good read. In addition, she offers eight recovery steps that helped her break free of anxiety’s grip and led her to physical and emotional healing.
About the Author
With Seattle forever in her heart, BRONWYN WILSON currently lives in sunny Arizona with her husband Jerry and two cats (a self-proclaimed princess and her humble sister). Previously, Bronwyn wrote feature stories and a humorous garden column for the Woodinville Weekly in Woodinville, Washington. A Master Gardener, Bronwyn has a fondness for all kinds of plants−excluding pampas grass known to tantalize her allergies. She’s happiest when chatting with a friend or family member in a quaint coffee shop; feeding the giraffes at the Phoenix Zoo; or writing at home in her fleecy pajamas.
WWW.BRONWYNWILSON.COM