I was sitting in my boyfriend’s living room the first time it happened to me.
There were 5 of us in the room; me, him, his parents, and his sister. We had only been dating a few months, but I had been in that room many times. It was a familiar environment. There was nothing there telling me that I should feel uncomfortable. But my thoughts were traveling at the speed of light, and I could not stop the irrationality of my own mind from taking over my body- physically and mentally.
WHY is my mouth so dry? Oh my god, I forgot my water bottle in the car. I need water. I can’t swallow. I should ask my boyfriend for water. But I’m too anxious to ask him. What if he doesn’t have any? Why am I so nervous to ask for water?!?! I should just ask him. Oh my god I really can’t swallow now. My palms are clammy. They are sweating. My phone is getting slippery because my hands are so clammy. My stomach is starting to turn. Oh my god, am I getting sick? I’m really nauseous now. I think I might actually throw up right in this living room. I still can’t swallow!!!!! I need water!!! My vision is starting to go. I think I’m going to see stars soon. The room is getting darker. My hands are SHAKING. My heart is beating so fast I can see my chest moving. It’s MOVING. I have to go. I have to get out of here. I’m not feeling well and I’m going to be sick right now if I don’t get out of here. But oh my god I have only been in this room for 20 minutes. We’re supposed to play cards soon. Can I stick it out maybe? I can’t swallow anymore. I can. not. swallow.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said to boyfriend as my voice shook fiercely.
“Do you want to go in the other room?” he asked me.
“I have to go,” I said. “Now.”
And after only being in that living room for no more than 15 minutes I told everyone I had to go, and I left. The weirdest part about the whole situation? The second I closed the door to my car and buckled up, my symptoms were gone. I felt normal. Completely fine. Something was wrong with me and I did not know what. I decided to ignore it and pretend like nothing ever happened. And then a week or so later it happened to me again. And again. And again. And again.
“You’re experiencing panic attacks,” my therapist told me. And after that I have never heard a word replay inside my own head more than that one. Panic. It is my favorite word in the dictionary. It is who I am. It is me. I am one big bundle of panic.
I spent my sophomore year of college at home cursing my doctors, cursing medication that only caused panic attacks rather than stopping them, cursing everyone around me for not understanding, and cursing my brain for malfunctioning the way it did.
I found myself unable to sit through class without getting a panic attack. I found myself unable to go to another one of my boyfriend’s family get-togethers. I found myself unable to go on airplanes, trains, and cars with unfamiliar people. Unable to go to restaurants. Unable to go to meetings. Unable to be myself. Unable to stop thinking about the next time I was going to get another panic attack. I found myself not wanting to live anymore.
I now carry a water bottle with me wherever I go. I always have an emergency anxiety pill in my pocket. I drive myself to places every chance I get so I don’t feel trapped and can leave if need be. I ask a lot of questions. I plan diligently. I also say no. A lot. When I am asked to go places, I typically have to say no, and it makes me look as if I am extremely stand-offish and antisocial, which just isn’t the case at all. And it’s not because I don’t want to go places. It’s not because I don’t want to socialize and meet new people. I always want to. But my brain won’t let me. I live in constant fear of having another panic attack, because there’s one lurking at every corner.
Panic disorder is not superficial. You cannot tell when someone has it. You cannot see the sudden periods of intense fear. You cannot see the palpitations, the sweating, the shaking, the shortness of breath, the numbness. You simply cannot see it. It’s dressed with wrapping paper and a bow. It’s hidden.
I am 20 years old. I am a junior in college. I have a 3.9 GPA. I have a job. I have a boyfriend. I have a car. I dress nicely, I do my makeup, I decorate, I cook, and I really, really appear to be a completely normal, functioning human being. But only on the outside.
Nobody can see that I am battling one of the most extreme cases of anxiety. I have learning to completely conceal it. It is something that only my brain and I share. It takes place in the darkest depths of my mind, and no one will ever be able to figure out where it came from, what triggered it, and when it will go away.
My disorder cannot be cured. I have gone through extensive therapy and tried many different medications. I have done yoga and meditation and deep breathing exercises, but my disorder is here to stay. It is a part of who I am and I have accepted my struggle wholeheartedly no matter how much I resent my brain for becoming this way. My disorder cannot be cured, but it can be alleviated.
Always be mindful of the people around you. Always go out of your way to make someone feel comfortable and at ease. Ask questions. Be gentle. Be understanding. Everyone is facing a different battle- some of ours are just wrapped up in a package with a pretty little bow on top.