My First Panic Attack - and What Happened Next

When I experienced my first panic attack, I had no clue what was happening. I was crying uncontrollably, my heart was threatening to jump out of my chest, my mind was swimming in lightheadedness, I thought I was dying. With exams around the corner, I chalked the feelings down to stress, not realizing that it was my mental health that was suffering.

But the attacks continued over the next few months. I kept rationalizing: I thought it was because I had just moved to college, and my boyfriend and I had broken up. I thought it was because I missed my family and friends. And I thought I was making a big deal out of nothing.

I thought I would be okay once the situation around me improved--once I was done with exams, over the heartbreak, more settled in at college. I kept dismissing everything as stress, until:

I started feeling anxious all the time.

I started having one too many sleepless nights.

I started checking my heart rate to make sure I was not dying.

I started having to run downstairs in the middle of the night for fresh air because I could not breathe.

I started feeling like I was no longer in my own body, seeing but not fully experiencing what was happening to me.

It was some time before I could admit to myself that I needed help. But when I did, I gathered the little energy I had and went to see a therapist. I did not want to tell anyone I was in therapy, even though it was only a few sessions. I thought I just needed to talk through my problems - to vent - for things to get better. I stopped therapy after a few sessions thinking everything was okay.

But things got worse.

Soon, the smallest of things would make me cry. I stopped going out with my friends. I spent entire days watching Netflix. I had no motivation to get out of bed, let alone attend classes. I was awake all night and fitfully asleep for most of the day. I just didn’t care – about myself or what was happening around me. I knew my mental health was suffering but I didn’t have the energy to care.

I still wonder how I managed to gather up the energy and courage and tell my parents I needed to start therapy and eventually start medication. Even though I was regular with my medication, it took a long time for it to start having a positive effect on me. I had given up on a lot of things that mattered - like my creativity, academics and my relationships - and I was slowly trying to make my way back to them.

From then on there were still a lot of ups and downs. No drug is a magical, overnight fix. There were a lot of days when I felt broken. I knew I had to become more compassionate and loving towards myself instead of punishing myself all the time for feeling the way I did. I knew I had to look out for myself. I remember the day I made a promise to myself that I would look out for my own happiness and took the first step in actually being kind to myself. I wrote down what I deserved. And I did not accept anything less than that.

I never had the words to explain how I felt. I did not know what to tell my parents or my friends. I kind of just wished they knew what to do and say. I felt ashamed. I felt like it was my fault for feeling these things. Maybe if I had taken better care of myself or exercised and meditated more? I was always questioning myself. What could I have done differently to avoid feeling like this?

I was being unfair to myself; and intellectually I knew I was being too harsh. If my best friend, or a stranger for that matter, told me they felt any of this I would tell them exactly that.

Cut yourself some slack. No one is to blame.

It is completely okay to feel like this.

It is okay to not be okay.

Easier said than done, right? But how does one start to love themselves? Forgive themselves for their darkest days? (I am still trying to figure that out)

When I felt like I was alone and there was no one I could count on, I did the only thing I could. I started to count on myself. I became my own cheerleader. I still struggle with that at times – but I still get up and try to fight that voice that tells me I am not worth it. On my worst days, I wanted my friends or family to be there for me, not so I could talk to them or have a shoulder to cry on – I just needed the comfort that only loved ones can provide. I just wanted to know that I was worth something, that I would be okay eventually, and that I was not alone on this journey.

Over the past few years, I have pushed a lot of people away. I could not face my loved ones. I did not have the courage to say I am not okay. I did not have it in me. It was easier to be alone than to have someone feel sorry for me. Don’t get me wrong--I never wanted to be alone, I just did not want to be a burden.

If your loved one is pushing you away because of a mental illness, please don’t walk away. I know it can be hard seeing someone you love fight this battle and not being able to do anything about it. Instead, give them a hug and tell them you are staying with them, no matter what. Give them the love that they so dearly need. Give them the support by being the shoulder they can cry on or the person they can talk to, without any judgement. Be kind. Try to be understanding. You never know what they are experiencing. After all, they barely understand it themselves.