The attack comes when I am standing in the middle of a party, sandwiched between dozens of people I don’t know. It’s a frat party, a pregame, held in a tiny, windowless room that smells of weed and spoiled food. I am here with a handful of girls that I guess I would consider my friends; it is the beginning of October, six weeks into my freshman year of college, and our relationships are still budding, slowly shifting between niceties and genuine interest.
The attack starts slowly, with the pangs of discomfort and unease that I am used to. Like usual, I dismiss them. I am an only child, a writer, and loud, crowded parties have always made me uncomfortable. I am better suited for movies, pizza, laughing conversations with a few friends over dinner. In big, noisy groups, surrounded by strangers, I am accustomed to feeling out of place. Anyhow, the unease almost always passes. I drink a little more, laugh a little louder, and eventually, I feel all right. Yet tonight, the discomfort isn’t going away. It’s a small room, but I feel especially claustrophobic. I need air. There are too many people and too many noises and so I squeeze my way through the crowd into the hallway. I stumble into an empty room, closing the door behind me. Nothing changes. My heart still pounds and my hands still shake and I think I might throw up.
The door flings open and Julia walks in. She is the closest friend I have at this point, but she has spent tonight wrapped around some guy, a red cup glued to her hand.
“There you are,” she says. “We’re leaving.”
She doesn’t see my pale skin or trembling limbs, but I don’t blame her. When you’re having a good time, it’s easy not to notice those who aren’t. I follow her out of the house. The others are waiting outside, tapping on their phones impatiently.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but no one’s listening.
They chatter as we walk home, but I stay silent. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I might start to cry instead of speak. I want to scream at them to hurry up, or to let me run past; I need to be back in my dorm, alone in my room, because whatever is happening to me cannot happen in front of people I hardly know. Finally, I am back in my dorm, and I explode. I manage to make it to my bed, where I sit down and begin to cry, loudly and messily even though the walls of these rooms are paper-thin. I want to stop, but I don’t know how. I’m shaking, harder and harder with each passing second, and I feel like I am going to die. In some stroke of luck, my roommate isn’t here. It’s late, and she’s usually back by now. I can’t deal with another person in the room with me while I am like this, having to explain myself when I don’t even know what’s happening.
I keep waiting for the shaking and the crying to stop, but I am out of control, in someone else’s body, and there is nothing I can do. My mind is blank except for the repeated refrain of oh god oh god what’s happening to me? Then, the next moment, a thousand thoughts appear at once – I can’t handle this, I don’t belong here, I need to go home. I am overwhelmed, incapable of rationality. Somehow, inexplicably, I find myself dialing numbers on my cell phone. My mother answers on the second ring.
“Hello?” she says. It’s past 2 A.M., my father’s away on a trip, and I can hear the scared sleepiness in her voice, drunk drivers and police tape flashing through her mind.
“Mom,” I choke out. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”
She snaps to attention and commands me to breathe, in and out, slow and strong. It feels impossible, but she tells me to try.
“I can’t, I can’t do anything,” I say.
“Yes, you can,” she promises. “You’re going to be okay. Just breathe.”
She stays on the phone for an hour, coaching me through my return back to sanity. I breathe like she tells me to, and after awhile, the shaking and the crying subside. My heart rate slows down. Still, I’m terrified.
The next morning, everything is like it always is. I wake up, brush my teeth, make my way to class. I push any thought of the night before into the back of my mind. When my mother calls to see how I am, I tell her I’m fine. I’m already embarrassed that I called her; it was weak, the action of a needy child too pathetic to handle her own life. Of course, my mother sees right through this. I can practically hear the roll of her eyes as I say that it wasn’t a big deal, that I’m sorry for waking her up so late at night.
“I’m proud of you for calling,” she says, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, my eyes well with tears. Despite my embarrassment, I’m proud of me too. Like my father, I am a fiercely private person, my guard always up and my failings kept hidden. Yet last night, in the worst place I have ever been, I called my mother for help. Even so, I don’t tell any of my friends at school. The week drags on as it always does, filled with readings from textbooks and trips to the dining hall. And then it is Friday. We’ve been invited to a party. It’ll be just like the one last weekend. A different frat house, but that hardly matters. There will be boys, booze, a swarm of sweaty teenagers crowding up a room meant for far less.
"It’ll be fun,” Julia promises.
I want to believe her, but I find myself making an excuse. I lie that I’m not feeling well, and after a half-hearted “are you sure?”, my friends leave without me.
As I sit in my room, watching TV and eating ice cream out of the carton, I feel awful. I am too scared of another attack happening to go out, and I hate it. I am miserable, confined to my dorm room while my friends drink and dance, their minds clear and their hands steady. It’s easy to picture every weekend being as lonely as this one. And so I decide to make a choice. I pick up the phone and dial my parents’ number. When they answer, I take a deep breath.
“I think I need to go to therapy,” I say.
On Wednesday, I walk into the Counseling Center, where I have an in-take appointment to determine what type of therapy is best for me. When they call my name in the waiting room, I jump, sure that on my 30,000+ person campus, someone I know will be within earshot. My therapist has dreadlocks and a voice I have to lean in to hear. He asks me questions about my family and school.
“Do you always fidget like that?” he asks.
I have bitten my nails and cracked my knuckles for so long that I don’t even notice when I do it. Embarrassed, I apologize. He raises an eyebrow and writes something down. The questions start to get more specific. I tell him about the attack, trying to describe it as detachedly as I can. I mention the three other, much smaller attacks I’ve had in the past few years; over the last week, memories have surfaced, random bouts of crying and fear suddenly making sense.
As the hour dwindles, the counselor suddenly snaps his notebook shut.
“We’re going to meditate,” he says.
I have to work to contain my laughter. I am a girl with a mind that can never shut off, who talks a million miles an hour and reads four books at once. I don’t meditate. And yet a moment later, the lights are off and my legs are crossed. I am told to empty my mind and take deep breaths. After a failed minute of trying, I open my eyes. I study a Buddha quote on the wall while I wait for my therapist to be done.
“That was pointless,” I tell my parents on the phone when it’s over. They understand, but they want me to stick it out for at least one more appointment. This one will be with a therapist that the in-take counselor recommends for me. I reluctantly agree.
A week later, I am back in the waiting room. When my name is called, I follow a tall, brown-haired woman into an office. We shake hands, and she tells me to call her Maria. She sweeps empty bags of chips off her desk into the garbage. I’m already more at ease than at the last appointment, but still, I’m cautious. We begin like before. She asks me questions and I answer. She takes some notes, but mostly, she just listens. We talk about the attack, but just briefly. Towards the end of the session, I ask if we’re going to meditate.
“Why, do you want to?” She asks, looking surprised.
“God, no,” I say. “I was just asking because the other therapist made me.”
“Really? You don’t seem like someone who’d like meditation,” she laughs. “You probably suck at it, right?”
I like her already.
I see Maria every Tuesday for the next six weeks. We talk about everything; she’s fascinated that I’m an only child. I tell her about my parents and my friends, my hopes and dreams for the future. At first, it’s difficult; I censor what I say, not used to sharing the intimate details of my life with a stranger. As the sessions wear on, however, my guard falls, and I allow myself to reveal more than I ever have. It’s liberating. When it comes time to talk seriously about the attack, I force myself to be honest. This is why I’m here, to have someone who understands panic give me the help I know I need. Maria asks me to describe how I felt during the worst of it, when all rationality had disappeared.
“I felt like I was drowning,” I say, surprising myself with the accuracy of the description. “Like everything was spinning out of control, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”
“That must have been terrifying,” she says.
I tell her about how the fear has stayed with me since the attack, controlling everything I do. I’m scared to go to parties, because I’m sure it’ll happen again. I’m hesitant to hang out in groups, even small ones, because the sound of loud music makes my heart pound and my hands sweaty. I spend too much time alone. There’s silence as she thinks of what to say. I like that she takes her time before she speaks. It forces me, a natural speed-talker, to slow down in return.
“There’s always going to be fear,” she says, finally. “I can’t lie and tell you that it’ll go away, because it won’t. But you don’t have to be so scared of it. You can choose to see that fear and acknowledge it exists, and then you can move on. It’s not the fear that’s the problem, but the way you choose to handle it.”
Six weeks of therapy have given me the tools I need to actually heed this advice. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, it feels like a weight has lifted from my body. I understand – I can make a choice. I can stay scared and miserable, or I can try to be okay.
Maria and I spend the rest of our sessions figuring out ways to identify panic before it hits. We continue to talk, and the conversations flow easily. I learn more about myself. As much as my stubborn self doesn’t want to admit it, asking for help may be the best thing I’ve ever done. Over time, I begin to hang out with friends more often. I go to a few parties on the weekends. One Saturday night in December, I feel the panic start to hit, but before it can escalate, I step into an empty room and practice some of the breathing techniques Maria taught me. In a few minutes, I’m fine.
My insurance-covered therapy sessions run out in February. A last-minute paper forces me to cancel the final appointment, but instead of rescheduling, I decide to let it be. I leave Maria a voice-mail and thank her profusely. To her, I’m probably just another patient; to me, she’s the reason I haven’t dropped out of school.
It’s been nearly six months since then. I haven’t had another panic attack since October. I don’t know if I ever will again, but if I do, I’ll be ready. I can control the fear; I’ll refuse to let the fear control me.