When It's "All in Your Head"

I had my first major panic attack a week before I graduated from college.

I was at work and it was ten minutes before closing. I had worked a 6 hour shift and my legs were tired but I was happy. I was leaving soon and there was nobody in the store (though, in retail, that can change in a matter of seconds). I was going through returns when, suddenly, I felt it.

It started as a shallow breath here and there and I figured that I was just getting a bit winded from bending over and then back up and walking back and forth behind the counter. No big deal. Then I felt the fear hit me like a truck.

It was nonsensical and straight-up confusing. There was nothing within five feet of me. There were three other employees working that night. My closest co-worker and friend was replacing all the sale tags on the shelves. The Assistant Manager was taking a call in the back. My other co-worker was vacuuming just an aisle over. If anybody were to come in, it would have been my responsibility to 1) greet them and 2) ring up their purchases.

It wasn't a particularly stressful task and, as I've said, I was about to leave.

But there was just... something that must have set me off that night over a year and a half ago now. Maybe it was the subconscious thought of finally being done with school (which I both dreaded and looked forward to) or maybe it was the built up stress of a full week of work and finals finally catching up to me.

Whichever it was, I began to shake and soon tears were spilling from my eyes. If the store had had customers, I don't know what I would have done. I guess I was lucky that night that the only person who saw me crying at that moment was my friend and he covered for me while I ran to the bathroom and sobbed my anxiety away—or as away as possible in the middle of your workplace during a panic attack.

When my shift was over, nobody expected me to stay late to help clean. My AM actually insisted that I leave and take care of myself. I thanked him and went straight to my car, taking deep breaths all the way home. When I finally parked, I ran straight into my empty house and called my mom.

"I've had anxiety attacks before, sweetie," she said. "You just have to breathe. It's all in your head."

By that point, my chest had begun to ache from my ragged breathing and it felt like I was going to die. It took nearly an hour for that pain to lesson and for my breathing to go back to normal. By that time, my dad had come home and was trying to relax me by telling me to breathe and calm down and just try to sleep.

I don't think either of my parents has really ever felt the kind of fear that comes with a panic attack. Or how it gets so bad for me now that, in the midst of a recent attack, I contemplated ending my own life because I thought that it was the only way to end the pain.

After that first attack, I didn't have another for about six months. My summer was enjoyable and I felt off when I didn't have to return to school in the fall, but I was working freelance and doing alright.

Waking up any time I wanted to and working in my pajamas was a major plus point for me. It reduced my stress greatly and the next time I had anything close to a panic attack was on November 9th of that same year.

I don't believe I have to explain why, so I won't, but all that day I was nauseous and shaky and I just couldn't fully relax at all. But I didn't have trouble breathing or freak out like the first time, so I didn't think it was all that serious. I rationalized it as a natural reaction to an unnatural and somewhat terrifying event.

Then came January.

I remember Chinese food and crying at the kitchen table because I believed I was having a heart attack. I remember putting on slippers and climbing into my dad's car so that he could drive me to the hospital. I remember expensive tests and painful needles and waiting three hours for a nurse to discharge me after the doctor told me that all I had was anemia and anxiety. He handed me some medication and I went back home just before a snowstorm hit, trapping us inside for the following weekend.

The next time I had an anxiety attack, I took my meds and they just barely made a dent, but at least I slept.

After that, I had one in the daylight and my brother took me to a family doctor where we wouldn't have to pay for a checkup, and she prescribed me medication that actually worked much better.

That was three days past my 23rd birthday.

Now, I'm onto 24 and I'm on two different medications AND I'm seeing a therapist for the first time, thanks to my insurance. I had a panic attack two days ago after I'd run out and I had to stay up all night until I could go back to the doctor and refill the prescription. As I write this, I can feel the effects of my Xanax working to relax me and put me to sleep.

Even with all this, and the fact that my mom went through something similar at exactly my age, I'm still told by both of my parents that it's "all in your head, honey," and "just relax and breathe," as if the pain in my chest, which is caused by the inability to breathe properly, isn't real. As if I'm not aware that all my fears are in my head, that I'm not actually dying, that I will feel better in a matter of hours.

I know all this. I've thought a lot about it. I've discussed it with professionals. I understand my illness now and what triggers it and what helps me deal with it better than my parents do. My therapist is a wonderful woman and I have fantastic friends, who also have the same mental illness as me. I am living with anxiety and it's hard as hell, but I'm doing it. I don't need people who don't understand what it's like to randomly start hyperventilating and crying because my mind is racing with thoughts I can't shut down to tell me how to handle it.

I just need them to be there, to support me, and to tell me that everything is going to be alright. Because it is. I know that, but my anxiety doesn't.

That's the problem.