The Inner Workings of a Panic Attack

You’re okay.

You know that.

You know that “the world is not ending,” and you know that you have a long list of loving family, friends, and a partner to support you whenever you need them.

You know.

You know that your life isn’t ruined, and that you, in fact, are not drowning in a poisonous personification of your own thoughts even though your chest burns for air like you are.

You know that if you “take deep breaths”, vent, and put a Disney movie on in the background you will get over this “episode.”

You know.

You know that this state you are in “is only temporary.”

You know that you can ask your parents to fly you home this weekend because you feel like you’re dying, and that you’re not really dying but that’s how you feel, and you know “it’s okay to feel that way,” but you feel stupid and ridiculous anyway. And then you feel stupid and ridiculous for feeling stupid and ridiculous and anyway you don’t want to ask your parents to spend more money on you than they already do, though they’d be more than willing to help you, not everyone has what you have and that’s okay but you can’t help but feel guilty and it's not your fault.

You know!

You have helped a multitude of loved ones and strangers through the inner crisis of one's tipping point, but you can never seem to listen to your own advice and logic. You have learned over the past six years that just because you recognize the rational side of your, and other people’s, existence doesn't mean that your body recognizes that side of you as well, or that Lily does.

Lily. She can be a real asshole. And yet she is a part of you. Not in the you-hear-voices-that-aren’t-your-own kind of way, or even the there-are-two-of-you-in-one-body way. Lily is a part of you like popcorn is a part of a kernel. She is the therapeutic personification of the voice that drones in the back of your mind. We all have one; you just choose to identify your tiny devil as a good, childhood friend for whom you can dish out advice to when she’s sobbing at the wall hysterically hoping to coax some sort of existential sense out of it.

She was born from the ideas of healing and wisdom, though you feel as if she stabs you in the eyes with ice picks on a day-to-day basis. Such fun.

Your mom (and later your therapist agreed) suggested that you give the shitty feelings inside of you a name in order to detach them from yourself. So far, it works… sometimes. You can’t tell exactly what it is that gets you out of my spiraling ruts of emotion, but you know that addressing Lily directly and three Prozac pills a day does something positive and constructive. At least that's a start; though Lily likes to remind you that you two have been playing this game since you were little. Occasionally, when she gets to you, you wonder how you could have gotten yourself into this mess, and why you haven’t gotten yourself out of it yet. Though you advise people to steer clear of the why and stick with the now you sure don’t.

You didn’t choose Lily for a name, not really. You kind of chuckle awkwardly to yourself every time you think or speak to “Lily”, especially when she’s having one of her tangents, and anxiety wracks your common sense with feelings of shame and silliness.

“Lily” was the temporary suggestion your mom provided you over text during a particularly difficult anxiety attack you were having. And you didn’t know you were having one until thirty minutes in when you stepped out of class to go to the bathroom to hide tears of overwhelm.

That was the first time you had to excuse yourself from class to lean against the inside of a public stall and quietly sniffle to yourself. Every sniffle resounded through the hall-styled room like you were crying into a microphone though. It was kind of awful. You felt like shit. And you was pretty sure that Lily wanted you to drop out of school, even though you definitely didn’t want that.

That's the kind of bullshit Lily tries to trick you into. She’ll sell you ideas that start off reasonable, and then, once she has you hysterical and vulnerable, she twists reality and confuses you into practical submission. You try to be kind to her and say no, but when in a state of inner chaos, you forget what the word “no” actually sounds like. All you can really hear in that state of mind is white noise; a contemporary compilation of your demons, dreams, and denials.

You tried to think of replacement titles for “Lily”; you made quite a few lists in fact.

Some of the Not-Lily List:

• Scar Helpless Trump
• Veronica Grumpy Trouble
• Demon Ursula Other Me
• Anxiety Stupid

But none of them seemed to stick. None of the names you rattled off to yourself in embarrassment wanted to be the voice in the back of your head- probably because you was embarrassed while making the lists.

You felt, and still sometimes feel, like a child with an imaginary friend. And though you are a semi-adult, you can’t help but compare yourself to the people nearby, and on the TV, who seem to have their shit together. Well, you tell yourself they have their shit together because they aren’t demonstrating their inner turmoil as physically as you feel you are (which you know you’re hardly showing).

You sigh because even as you write this, Lily whispers behind you. She tells you that you are treating mental illness with the same, bitter, sarcastic tone we have become accustomed to speaking in when mentioning the realities of a human's psyche. She tells you that you are not good enough. You are not strong enough. You-are-not-the-opposite-of-what-you-are-enough. She tells you that you should be more original and uplifting; you should be more this, less that, less this, more that.

“Should.” “Should” is a common word, and yet it is one that invalidates your existence quite a few times a day. You find yourself listening to Lily soothe you to sleep with “should” rather than “are.” You should work harder, you should be more sexy, you should have spoken up, you should be anything but you. Lily needs to shut up, because it doesn’t matter what you should do. It matters what you are doing, who you are, and where you are. Hopefully you can tell that to her the next time she tries to pipe up. If not, you guess you should—are going to keep trying until you do tell her to shut up. She may have intrinsic, primal reasons for trying to wheedle into your choices and opinions, but you want to call the shots when your flight or fight instincts kick in, not her.

You may be stuck together forever, but Lily won’t always be a domineering big sibling. You will be the voice in your head.