I have been plagued by bouts of anxiety for my entire life. I used to cry at the grocery store with my mother when we had to stand in line to check out. I would leave my school classroom when the other children were getting too loud and sit in the bathroom, imagining I was laying in my bed at home with no one else around. I could never handle change. One particular morning when I was in third grade I nearly refused to go to school because my mother had forgotten to wash my knee socks. Every Tuesday I had to wear knee socks. I was sure the other students would notice and I would never be able to return to that school again.

My anxiety continued to get worse as I got older. By the time I was 14, I had had my first full blown panic attack. I was staring down my school hallway and out of nowhere the lights seemed too bright. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I woke up later in the nurse’s office, as I had passed out. I suddenly became incredibly afraid of having another attack. That was the beginning of my journey with panic disorder.

During an attack it is like I'm drowning at the bottom of a deep, abysmal pool with my hands chained to the bottom. My heart beats so fast I am sure that it will bust through my chest. My entire body shakes violently and my muscles become ridged and tense. I gasp for air but it never feels like I am taking enough in. My hyperventilating makes it impossible to speak, though even if I could make a sound, I feel as if I would only scream. All of my thoughts revolve around a blackness of fear and a belief that I am dying.

However, it is not completely better when the attack ends. An attack can last from a few minutes to a half-an-hour. Sometimes I pass out when the attack is too intense. The first thing I notice afterwards is how stiff I am. I have to slowly unclench my fist and roll my shoulders to try and break the tightness in my muscles. Then I notice the little things, like how much my chest hurts from breathing so heavily or how my socks are soaked with a cold sweat.

I did not get officially diagnosed until I was 17. I remember sitting and feeling so calm when my therapist assured me I wasn’t crazy and that what I was feeling was real and valid. She helped me in important ways, like showing me coping mechanisms and helping me get with a psychiatrist who prescribed me medication.

As I have gotten older, I am now able to sense an attack coming on. While I cannot completely stop it from happening, I am at least able to get myself somewhere private and safe. I pray that one day I will not be plagued with these daily moments of complete terror. I have not given up the fight yet, and I do not plan to do so anytime soon.