The Beginning of Panic

I’m about thirteen years old. Recently, a tornado somehow jumped over our trailer as it came from the hill behind us and tore through every tree or bit of gravel in its path. As it happened, my mother held my sister and I in the middle of our living room floor and she prayed, “Please, God, help us get through this.”

The lights were out, and would remain out for about two weeks to our little rural community. The tin roof of the porch we had built onto the trailer was being picked up and slammed down, creating the most unnerving clattering sound I had ever heard. It was as though a train had gone off the rails and was suddenly barreling right through the side of our home. My sister was screaming, my mom was trying to shush her through her own tears.

The next morning, we caught the school bus, which was late because of all the debris. As I walked to the mailbox, I had to step over large branches and trash. The tree in from neighbors yard, a tree that had to have been several hundred years old judging by its massive size, had fallen in such a way that it blocked the road leading deeper into the holler. I tried to wrap my head around how anything could be powerful enough to take down a tree who’s horizontal trunk was taller than me.

Now, the sky is gray again. The wind is blowing so slightly, and I — well, I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been. You might even say I’m more terrified than I was during the tornado. I’m convinced that I cannot be lucky enough to survive another. This is the big one. I’m going to die.

I’m standing outside where that tree had been removed. We are waiting for the bus, and I don’t know how to tell my sister that we are about to die. I keep quiet, get on the bus, sit next to my best friend, and begin staring out the window. Usually we’d be talking about video games or Pokémon cards, but today is different. Today, I cannot get the image out of my head that a tornado is at any moment going to pick up our school bus and hurl it into the cow pastures somewhere along the ride to school.

The road is long. It’s about forty five minutes into town. (This is my first memory of my obsession with time during times of anxiety.) When we do arrive, miraculously, the fear is still present. I spend the day checking the windows in each class. How dark are the clouds? Is there any sun or is the sky full? Are the trees moving? How hard is the wind?

How hard was the wind before it became a tornado? What temperature was the air? What did the air feel like?

When I get home, instead of Toonami, I turn on the news. I wait impatiently for the forecast. I flip between each local station so that I can catch each casting of the weather. I do this for about three hours. Nothing matters except the reassurance that nobody is going to say, “There is a risk for tornadoes.”

…

This remained the pattern for several months. I became an expert of meteorological terminology, and I learned to recognize the way that outside felt when the weather was going to be bad. It’s heavy, damp, and warm. I could not predict when a tornado would touch down, but at least I was a little less afraid on cloudy days. I’d still check the news in the morning and after school just in case.

Now you’re probably wondering, “What happened when there was actually a tornado warning?” Well, friend, I was beside myself. That’s an understatement. I started finding ways to comfort myself. When the warnings were on, I’d wrap my entire body in a blanket, sit in the bathtub, and hum with my fingers in my ears. When this fear went on for about a year, I started using headphones instead.

This was the start of panic disorder, a condition that I would not be diagnosed with until I was in my late twenties. Through my other blog posts, I will be recounting and exploring my experiences with this disorder — where it started, how it has looked over the years, and what it looks like now.

I’m looking forward to sharing more with you.