I hope that by sharing as many experiences as possible, I can aid the cause to reducing mental illness stigma. The more folks who talk about their lives with mental illness, the closer we come to achieving acceptance.
What better way to start this train than with myself?
My anxiety originally manifested in 5th grade, though habits like knotting my hair and picking my nails at the age of three indicate it began earlier. It was around the month of November when I experienced my first panic attack.
Panic attacks come in all shapes in forms – like snowflakes, they, too, are unique. The only way I can universally describe them is, “A moment in which you are hyperaware of your entire body while simultaneously dissociated from yourself.” My own attacks remind me of an equation:
Rapid heartbeat + Tunnel vision + Muffled hearing + Hyperventilation + Nausea + Dry heaving = PANIC ATTACK!!!!
As a child, I was too young to register that I’d experienced a panic attack. To me, the only worthwhile symptom was the retching, which convinced me I was going to vomit profusely. I told my teacher I was going to throw up and was sent to the nurse. Thanks to my looking like a wreck, I was able to go home. This situation went on nine times until the school warned my mom that I wasn’t allowed to miss more days. When the vomit scenario popped up again, I went to the nurse, but this time I had to stay there. During my visit she gave me a few crackers and recommended I eat them to calm my stomach.
I imagine that I was so desperate for anything to solve my mysterious stomach problems that – BAM – the crackers cured me. Eating them, swirling little pieces around in my mouth, taking the daintiest of bites - all this worked to remove my anxiety. With the crackers in a little baggie, I was able to go back to class. I WAS NORMAL. (By my 10-year-old definition, anyway)
It became something of an obsession at that point. I knew crackers would help the bad feelings go away, so I started to stick them in my pockets. Each day, I wondered if someone would discover them. What would the teachers think to learn I hid food in the pocket of my jumper? They would think I was a lunatic. So I avoided any situation where I might expose myself. After a casual day in school, I learned my favorite fuzzy black pants had pockets that were too shallow to hide my secret. Bye bye, pants.
It wasn’t until 8th grade that the problem became more manageable since I had started to forget why I needed the crackers in the first place.
By now, everyone in my family had some idea of my issue. I was ashamed in myself, so to avoid reality I responded like any other teenager; I began to daydream. I had the most ridiculous ideas. My favorite, most long-running daydream focused on my adventures as I went through different dimensions and saved the day. Any cartoon, book, or movie that interested me became part of this dreamworld. It also helped that I found a new boyfriend in each of these realms. It turns out that being an all-powerful, megasexy person means interdimensional guys will fall for you with ease.
The daydreaming helped!! Over the next five years, I cured myself from this problem. Crackers were a thing of the past!
Except they totally weren’t. My sophomore year of college was the most stressful time of my life due to a multitude of issues in my personal life. This time around, I recognized that I was experiencing panic attacks. I found solace in therapy. My therapist mostly sat in silence while I cried and blew my nose in tissues, and sometimes I felt that she wished to pin a long list of illnesses on me, but she gave me two things that helped: breathing exercises and list-making.
If I perceived an issue in my life, I would make a list documenting every aspect of it. The worst case scenarios, then how I would tackle them. Since my self-esteem had crumbled to the point where it could blow away in the breeze, she also encouraged me to make lists that described what made me so awesome. By the end of sophomore year, my self-esteem was the size of a pebble, but that was the biggest it had been in at least a year. Plus I no longer cried every night as I fretted over my life. Success!
Except no. Junior year, the problems became worse. I would wake up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, bile rising up my throat. I breathed, and it helped, but I worried. What would I do if the problem returned? What kind of failure would let the panic take hold again? I lost sleep. I dove into schoolwork, which proved an excellent distraction. I even kept crackers around, just in case, I told myself, but I hated the idea of having to use them again.
Fall semester ended, leaving me to four weeks without the distractions of school. This mounting panic turned me into a string pulled incredibly taut. I hoped I wouldn’t snap.
DUN DUN DUN. My string 100% broke during winter break. My fears spilled over when I had to visit my motherland, Ohio. My panic, mixed with my plane phobia, broke the string. Snap! From then on, I experienced panic attacks every other day, or multiple times in a day. The crackers returned to my life, but failed to bring the same comfort they brought to little Paige.
That trip was horrible. Seriously. Can you imagine going somewhere, only to spend huge chunks of time trying not to upchuck everywhere while you sob and hyperventilate? Not my idea of a fun vacation.
I thought returning home would solve the issue. It didn’t. I endured multiple attacks daily and couldn’t sleep because I didn’t want to wake up with a panic attack in the middle of the night. I shared the room with my twin and knew she would flip out if she woke up to my heaves. I tried meditation, breathing, lists, relaxation techniques, writing. Nothing helped.
After two weeks of the panic attack parade, I’d had enough. I knew eventually it would drive me insane. My sisters and mom begged me to see a doctor regarding my issues. So I did.
I thought I was going to cry when I went in, but I stoically informed my doctor that I had nearly no control over the panic attacks. Unlike sophomore year, when my attacks came with reason, these happened with no cause. Watching a movie? Panic attack. At the mall? Panic attack. In bed? Panic attack! When I finished with my spiel, my doctor asked me if I wanted to try medication to try to solve a possible chemical imbalance. I shamefully agreed.
My first three weeks with Lexapro were horrible. On top of my frequent panic attacks, I was incredibly nauseous, exhausted, and my head was filled with so much fog I could hardly see through it. Every time I ate, my body threatened to push everything back out. I drank Sprite with every meal since it helped to alleviate some of the problem. In four weeks, I adjusted to a normal sleeping schedule that didn't require a nap every two hours, and my panic attacks became less frequent, but it would be another two months until I could eat with the guarantee that I wouldn’t want to throw up afterward.
My panic attacks became once a week, then once every two weeks, and finally, six months after beginning Lexapro, I experienced my final full-blown panic attack. If I have an attack now, I am always able to control the sensations with deep breathing to prevent a hectic heaving fest. The only times I am reminded of my problem is when I forget to take my medication, since I spend the following day with headaches, nausea, dizziness, and these small brain zaps that feel like electrical impulses in your head.
This is supposed to be the part where I leave you with something inspirational, but after writing all that out, I don’t feel very inspired with myself. To me, this was something that happened and something that I will have to work to improve for the rest of my life. Sure, I’ve come a long way, but I don’t have anything left to say on the matter. It happened.
Sha-zam! There you have it. I have anxiety, and I’m practically, sort of, almost like everyone else. I still like ice cream, Netflix, and animal channels on youtube. Totally normal. (By my 22-year-old definition, anyway.)
