“Grapevine police and fire, this is Martha, how can I help you?” the operator says. I can’t feel my hands or feet. They’re numb.

I tell Martha that I need help.

It’s Christmas Eve. I’m heading home from work. My mom and brother will be at my apartment in an hour. I rush in, do some last-minute laundry, then head right back out to town to grab a few groceries. Something about me doesn’t feel right. I feel off. And I can’t put my finger on it. I just chalk it up to being tired.

I make it home forty minutes later and begin putting the groceries up. Then that uneasy feeling creeps back in. It’s like a wham to my stomach.

I start panicking. I rush to the bathroom and throw up. I can feel my heart racing. Sweat beads are dripping off my face. My extremities are tingling. This is a panic attack. This is the fifth one I’ve had this month. I can’t figure out what’s triggering them. And it’s scary.

I manage to get up off the bathroom floor and walk into the kitchen. I find Benadryl above the stove. I take two. That’s the only thing that calms me down. It makes me drowsy.

“Breathe, Lisa. Stay calm. Everything is fine,” I say out loud to myself.

Twenty minutes later there’s a knock on my door, and I welcome my brother and mom in. My mom can immediately tell something’s off with me.

“I don't know what’s wrong, Mom, I just started panicking,” I tell her.

It’s embarrassing, to say the least. What 26-year-old can’t control their thoughts enough, in turn, spiraling into a panic attack? I know anxiety is a mental disorder. I’ve always been anxious.

Third grade, the underbite days. A truancy officer came to my house because I was always late or absent from school. I always had stomach aches. My pediatrician diagnosed me with acid reflux disease. I started eating Tums like candy.

Fifth grade, mortifying episode. My family and I were at a Jackson Generals baseball game. We left early because I was crying in the bathroom with a stomach ache and had a constant feeling that everyone was staring at me.

Sixth grade, I remember it vividly. That was the grade I was in when the 9/11 attacks occurred. I remember rushing home that day and doing push-ups in case I got drafted into a war. I remember a week later running to my homeroom teacher freaking out because I thought I saw anthrax in the girls’ bathroom. (That’s when the anthrax scare was happening.) It was baby powder.

By eighth grade, the panic episodes seemed to disappear. I don’t know if I matured or learned to cope with stress better, but my anxiety had diminished.

College arrives. I can remember freshmen year going to the doctor and telling her that I couldn’t stop my anxiety. I was obsessively worrying. What if I fail this test? What if this guy doesn’t like me? What if I mess up during Chi Omega lip sync? What if I don’t get initiated? Constant what-ifs. She determined that I had OCD. Obsessive compulsive disorder. But not with habits, like the people you see on MTV’s True Life, but obsessive thinking. Overthinking. She prescribed Prozac.

I could never tell a difference with Prozac, to be honest, but people closest to me always said they could tell a difference. They would say, “You don’t seem to get as worked up or keyed up.”

My last year at UTM, I was enrolled in a senior level genetic disorder research class. One classmate gave a speech on Wiskott–Aldrich syndrome, or WAS. A disorder characterized by eczema, bloody diarrhea, lots of bruises and constant ear and sinus infections. Oh yeah, and it’s only found in males. I managed to self-diagnose and determine that I somehow had WAS. I’m a female. You catch my drift.

Then, again, the panic subsided for years. I moved to Murfreesboro. It was the semester I graduated with my second degree. I got into an argument with a roommate. I was hating my job. I left the house and rushed to the fraternity house where my boyfriend at the time lived. I remember crying for thirty minutes when he finally calmed me down. I left the house and headed straight to Dyersburg. I just wanted to be with my mom. I made it home and laid on the couch and cried. All weekend, I cried. I didn’t know what was wrong. I just kept overthinking everything. My boyfriend called to check on me and sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” to me. I cried harder.

My mom set up an appointment with a psychologist for that following Monday. I went. It was useless. I read pamphlets in the waiting room and starting thinking I had split personalities. Yes, I’m that WebMD girl.

Then, I graduated and moved to Texas. Minor anxiety was still present, but no panic attacks. I thought I had beat this monster. Then it came back. On Christmas Eve.

On the Monday after Christmas Eve, I went to the nearest walk-in clinic to speak with a doctor about my anxiety. It was like sticking a Band-Aid on a cut without the Neosporin or stitches. He offered Xanax. I declined. I didn’t want to be dependent on a drug to make me “normal.” Instead, I got Buspar, which is non-habit forming for anxiety. I thought that would solve the problem. I was wrong.

Two days later, I had the worst panic attack of my life. I got home after work and for no reason my body went into fight or flight mode. My heart was pounding. I was shaky and dizzy. I was struggling to breath. I felt like I was burning up from the inside. My stomach was in knots. My pupils were fully dilated. Worst of all, my hands and feet were completely numb, and they were curling up like t-rex hands. I wanted to call Matt. He always helped me calm down.

“No, Lisa, you need to learn to do this yourself,” I tell myself. I don’t call him. I call someone else.

“Grapevine police and fire, this is Martha, how can I help you?” the operator says. I can’t feel my hands or feet. They’re numb.

“Hi, Martha, I don’t know if this is classified as an emergency, but I’m having a panic attack. I can’t calm down. My feet and hands are numb and tingly, and they’re starting to curl up,” I tell her.

Within five minutes, seven paramedics were knocking on my door. I shakily let them in and explain the situation. They hooked me up to an oxygen machine and took my vitals.

“Do you use drugs? What medications do you take? What caused this? What do you want to do?” were the questions fired at me. I couldn’t focus or stop shaking.

“Why are my hands and feet doing this, y’all?” I ask.

“Because your rapid breathing isn’t allowing enough CO2 to stay in your body,” one tells me. Of course, it’s the hot paramedic that answers.

With that statement, my breathing gets more rapid and the oxygen machine starts beeping. I read a ‘25’ on the screen. They tell me the normal range for CO2 is '30-35.' I panic more.

After 20 minutes, the paramedics calm me down and recommend seeing a primary physician to pinpoint why I’m so anxious.

Two days later I walk into my doctor’s office. A real one. Not a walk-in clinic. They try to get my vitals. They take my weight. I’ve lost 35 pounds in a month and haven’t even tried. So, yet again, another panic attack ensues. I was so frantic that they couldn’t even get a blood pressure reading. I had to lie flat on the table to get a reading. It was mortifying. What adult can’t control their brain?

My doctor comes in and starts asking the dreaded questions. Are you suicidal? Do you hear voices? Do you see things?

Holy. Shit. All I can think about now is that new scary movie called “Split.” Am I that guy? Am I crazy?

She finally decides to prescribe Paxil and wean me off Prozac. She also recommends a psychologist because anxiety is rooted in something. I just don’t know what is causing mine.

It’s embarrassing to not be able to control your brain and have a mental “illness.” Physical illnesses can be seen. You can see the bacteria that causes strep throat. You can see the fracture in a broken bone. You can remove the benign tumor. But you can’t see the brain and the mind. You can only diagnose these issues with symptoms. I feel mortified. Am I normal? Am I crazy? Am I weird?

I’m the loud, talkative girl that isn’t shy. I love speaking in front of groups, I love meeting new people, and I love quizzing athletes at bars. So why am I going through this? I sleep on my Bible because my Granddaddy said that would help. I search “Bible verses that help for anxiety,” and read them over and over when I’m nervous. I MayoClinic.com my symptoms.

I realize that I’ve been self-medicating my whole life because I never realized I had a panic disorder. First it was acid reflux. Then OCD. Now anxiety. I would take Tums for my stomach aches and think everything would be fine. I would take Benadryl to make me drowsy so I’d just go to sleep and be fine.

I’m telling y’all this because my life isn’t perfect. Nowhere near it. Yes, I’m loud and outgoing. Yes, I tell about my crazy life. But, yes, I have problems, too. And if anyone is going through the same thing, you’re not alone. You’re not crazy. (Unless you’re in “Split.”) If anyone has gone through this, I sympathize with you, because it’s debilitating. And frustrating.

I’m looking forward to my appointment next week. Hopefully my doctor can pinpoint what’s making me anxious and help me cope better.

And with that, ends “The Tales of the Benadryl, Buspar and the Bard.”

-P.S. If I can get through it, you can, too.

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