But, the way to conquer a mountain is to put one foot in front of the other, and keep doing it.  Any tasks I got done needed to be tackled in minute portions--I couldn’t look at a sink full of dirty dishes.  I could wash one dish.  Then the next one.  So I kept trying to do housework, washing one dish at a time.  I had homeschooled our children until this point, but that was no longer possible.  So I got the kids on the bus for school in the mornings.  (Thank God, they could dress themselves and brush their own teeth and put one foot in front of the other to walk out to the bus.)  I made meals, very simple ones.  Sometimes.  And sometimes my hubby still did it; because, on some days, to put multiple things together in a lunchbox or for a meal was too much for me to wrap my mind around.  But I tried, and sometimes I got things accomplished.  I read the book, sometimes one paragraph at a time.  And then the next book.  

I was pegged as an anxious, nervous patient from the beginning.  What gave that away? maybe the panic attacks?  But I was ill, not stupid.  I was not being anxious or picky in order to make anyone else’s life difficult.  I was not refusing treatment--I desperately wanted to get better.  Using the techniques I was learning (one paragraph at a time) I attempted to keep from falling apart when panic attacks hit.  With time and practice, I began to be able to calm the racing thoughts that often precipitated them.  I still hated to ask for help, but I began to recognize when I needed it.  Slowly, with some setbacks along the way, I began to scale the mountain.