A Particularly Lovely Life, Despite the Stigma

November 31, 2016

My chest filled with butterflies (maybe they were bees) and I felt too many emotions at once. I couldn't breathe, yet I was drowning in oxygenation. My limbs began to shake. My focus faded and it was as though I was no longer present in the crowd of my church's youth group.

I didn't know it at the time, but I was experiencing the worst panic attack of my life.

Fast forward a few moments... I was still sitting in my metal chair. Many people were around me, but I didn't have the courage or understanding to make anyone aware of what was occurring. Heck, I didn't even know what was occurring.

Looking back on the experience now, I realized what the kids of my generation joke about- being "triggered"- is a very real thing. My trigger was feeling alone in large crowds or groups, but I didn't comprehend that at the time.

I can recall the moments being extremely vivid. Like I was living, but with the volume turned all the way up. My senses were heightened, and I was hyperaware of everything that was going on around me. The shifting in chairs. Sniffles. The closeness of the people around me, yet the fact that I felt so terribly alone. Absorbed in the overwhelming atmosphere.

The moment the service ended, I quickly said my goodbyes, claiming I wasn't feeling well, and I hurried out of the chaos to my dad's truck in the parking lot.

I didn't say a word on the way home. I should've.

Knowing what I do now, it was a terribly unsafe decision to not speak out about the situation.

Once I was home, I secluded myself, which is exactly the opposite of what I should've done.

I thought I could work myself through the attack. I tried all of the breathing techniques my mental health counselor and I had discussed. I listened to calming music. I tried desperately to go to sleep.

Two hours since the church service ended, and the panic attack was still ongoing.

My mom wasn't home yet. I wanted to wait up for her.

My dad and little sister were asleep. In my mind, there was no sense in waking them when they were so exhausted.

I vividly remember not feeling safe in my own body. I just wanted to end the horrid situation, and I was willing to do whatever I could to allow myself to slip out of the panic attack, and slip away from reality. I paced around my house, overthinking. I'm surprised I didn't form a rut in the kitchen tile.

Eventually, I became drained from all of the stress on my body, but I still couldn't sleep. In my mind, the smart idea was to take a few painkillers and conk out for the night. So I did. Not enough to do too much damage, I remember, but enough to make me drowsy.

I recall a boy my age texting me, randomly, asking if I was alright, and if I needed to talk to anyone. So I did. We talked for an hour or so. He talked me off the ledge I was ready to leap from.

While my brain was a bit fuzzy at the time, I know for a fact that this boy was placed in my path to keep me from doing anything I could never forgive myself for... It was remarkable. My eyes can't help but tear up when thinking of how incredible the timing was, and I knew it wasn't by chance.

God had His hand in this terribly dangerous situation, and not once did He waver.

Faith has always been a component in my life to keep me going, but after that night, the drive was on steroids.

When my mom returned home, I was experiencing the aftermath of the panic attack. She helped me through it, giving me some of my emergency anxiety meds, and allowing me to sleep in her bed. In minutes, I was finally asleep.

This experience showed me that support is my biggest assistance in the event of a panic attack, or any anxiety-inducing situation. By not speaking up immediately, I prolonged the panic attack I was having, and wore my body out in the process. Stress such as that isn't recovered from easily.

Since this incident, I have had very few panic attacks, and none have been at the intense level of this particular one. When I feel the symptoms of one coming on (shaking, hyperventilating, eye dilation, etc.), I have learned personal coping methods to shut them down, and have not stayed silent.

Silence is not strength, though it can showcase resilience.