It was a warm spring evening years ago. My plan was to shop for groceries.

I'm in a parking lot. I squeeze into a spot, grab a monster cart, and pass through parting glass doors into a stadium-sized building.

Stacks of advertised specials stand sentry to miles of chock-full aisles. I bypass the papers to find the starting gate. I glance at my watch to determine the allotted time until the cash register rings. Decisions begin. I must remember family favorites, menu ingredients, and nutritional values and then determine the price from perplexing codes. A choppy pattern emerges: weigh, decide, reconsider, return item to shelf, place new choice into cart, and then dash off to next aisle.

My temperature rises. Unbutton and remove sweater; add to cart. Oh, bread and cereals. This aisle alone could use up my remaining time. With my face warm and hands clammy, I clench my jaw and toss one item and then another into the cart and turn to the next long row before me. My stomach tightens. Just a few more aisles to go, I think, and push on.

Then suddenly, the tiny swells of fear that had been lapping at the shores of my consciousness gather into a huge wave. My legs shake, yet I feel gripped in a vise. A dreadful premonition warns me: I'm in trouble. I have to get out of here—fast! Trembling, I abandon the cart in the frozen foods section and race to my car. Hot tears stream down my face as I turn the key. The short drive home seems endless.

It was my first panic attack many years ago, but I still remember it clearly. That spring evening, I had headed out to tackle the grocery shopping while my husband stayed home babysitting. Round-the-clock care of our five-month-old and coordinating the older children's activities, while juggling the rest of my household duties, had been taking its toll. I was exhausted.

More attacks like this would plague me in the months and years that followed. At times, the tiniest apprehension could launch me into waves of panic so severe that I felt as if I were about to die. Nearly anyone might experience such terror under certain circumstances, such as seeing a truck headed straight at you or having a loaded gun pointed at your head. But only a nervous system gone haywire, like mine, would evoke this type of response from a simple disappointment or indecision.

After the first few panic attacks, I grew terrified that another one would arise. As these fears snowballed, they started to rule my life. I clung more and more to the presumed safety of my home. As the size of my world diminished, I slipped into depression.

I reached out for help, and ever so gradually, it came from loved ones, doctors, and books. Medication helped diminish the intensity and frequency of the attacks. Over the course of a few years, I became more functional. Yet I continued to struggle with intermittent bouts of anxiety and depression. And hovering in the background like an ominous dark cloud loomed the threat of those waves of terror, which could burst with a thunderclap when I least expected.

I continued researching to find solutions. The subject of reincarnation started entering my consciousness. The widespread ancient belief that we are born into the physical world not merely once but many times intrigued me. Several prominent psychiatrists had used past-life regression in their therapy. Two in particular got my attention: Dr. Brian Weiss (Many Lives, Many Masters) and Dr. Raymond Moody Jr. (Coming Back: A Psychiatrist Explores Past-Life Journeys).

Weiss and Moody disagreed somewhat in their interpretations regarding a patient's past-life experience. However, they both believed that past-life regression could be a helpful therapeutic tool to enhance the healing process. After reading their books, I wondered whether exploring reincarnation could help me.

* * *

One day, a friend who was interested in reincarnation gave me a tape from a seminar she had attended where a psychologist guided the participants in a regression process. My friend assured me that it was simple to do and that she had found it enlightening. But I still felt uncertain about what I would do regarding a former incarnation when I felt barely capable of managing my current state. So I placed the cassette in a desk drawer, where it stayed for weeks.

Now and then, as I thought about that tape, my curiosity gathered steam. Then, one cold, gray Midwest morning, I sensed an emerging eruption. I went to my study, opened the desk drawer, and retrieved the cassette. I stared at it in my hand for a while, still apprehensive about diving into the icy waters of self-discovery. An impatient part of me thought, "Just do it!" So I put the tape into the recorder, pushed the play button, and settled into my recliner.

The calm, comforting male voice on the tape gently invited me to relax. He suggested that I find myself in another place and time. In my mind's eye, I gazed down and saw bare feet. As my mental eyes moved higher, I realized I was a dark-skinned female with long, silky black hair. I was wearing a brightly colored, loose-fitting garment and standing on a sandy beach dotted with palm trees. The vivid blue sky was cloudless; the temperature was warm. A sea breeze brushed my body. The soft sand sifted over my feet. I gazed out at the ocean and saw a mist-covered mountain on a distant shore.

Suddenly, letters flashed through my mind: "n-e-s-i-a."

"Hmmm ... maybe this is Polynesia," I said, guessing.

Next, a word assaulted my consciousness: "Krakatoa." Vague recollections of a volcano emerged. My stomach tightened. This island paradise no longer seemed so idyllic, and I had lost all desire to view the next reel of the movie that was playing in my mind.

I reached for the off button, sat back quietly, and reflected on what had just happened. I felt shaken. Then a thought occurred to me. I went to the bookshelf and pulled volume K of the encyclopedia. Flipping through its pages, I found "Krakatoa," a volcano that erupted in 1893 in Indonesia. The eruption of this volcano caused tidal waves that killed thirty thousand people.

Over the years, I'd had numerous nightmares in which I'd been involved in a devastating flood. I also tended to feel fearful around large bodies of water and found movies about drowning deaths terrifying. I wondered if this tropical island scenario could have been the source of some of these fears or if my mind was just weaving together images I'd seen and heard before ... in this life. Well, the encyclopedia displayed no casualty list with my name on it. Still, this whole thing was unsettling. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

A couple of weeks later, I awoke one morning feeling afraid and frustrated as I recalled a puzzling dream. I recorded this nighttime drama in my journal and entitled it (a tip suggested to me several years earlier at a dream seminar):

The Beast at the Beach

I am at the beach with a large party of people. Suddenly, I feel terrified. A young man in the group displays a weapon, which he uses to threaten everyone. Somehow, I manage to get away from the crowd and begin searching for a place of refuge. I find myself in a dark, unkempt apartment badly in need of repair. And worst of all, there are clusters of strangers around, cluttering up my house. I feel annoyed and disturbed by them.

I wondered if the dream had anything to do with my fear of the...