Panic.

This week I started experiencing panic attacks. Anxiety and I are old acquaintances. We understand each other now. I know anxiety’s motives, foibles, even strengths. But panic, panic is new to me. This all-consuming sensation of suffocation. It's bodily. Externally this week, there was a lot happening. I had midterms in my graduate program. I taught my first yoga class in over a year. My dog became seriously ill from an inflamed colon, resulting in a hefty vet bill and another missed day of fieldwork. And my husband went out of town last minute. But, despite all the external stressors, my struggle stemmed largely from the internal. From these unprompted attacks of panic. They mostly happen at night. I lurch awake clutching my chest and gasping for air. Utterly terrified. My husband holds me, reminding me how to breathe, until I return to myself. I am not sure of their origin. They may be a side-effect of a new medication or a result of general grad-school stress. My guess is an interaction between both. Regardless, they scare the shit out of me. I don’t know myself in panic. Acting like a caged wild animal, frantic in my fear. I don’t like myself in panic.

Strangely, the most difficult part of the panic attacks isn’t the panic attacks themselves. It’s the shame I feel after. The mortification at my maladjustment, embarrassment of my extreme needs in my relationships, and worst of all, the interrogation of my sanity. I start to feel totally and utterly alone, as though I am the only person whose had this experience. I blame myself, thinking I must be unhinged or crazy or out-of-control and somehow the panic is caused by some personal failing. I tell myself everyone else is managing, why can’t I? Luckily, I know enough to know the antidote to shame is connection. Its saying out loud to trusted loved ones “This is happening, and I am scared” and hearing back “I’ve been there too and I’m with you”. Yet, to receive the tonic of connection, we have to allow ourselves to be fully seen - in our terror, our ugliness, our pain. Nothing feels quite as raw as someone witnessing your fragility, but nothing feels quite as intimate as being allowed to witness someone else’s.

I am still deeply in this experience. I come with no insights or solutions. Although I have no fix, I have a few tools that help me: breath work, movement, music, journaling, therapy, poetry, loved ones, nature, and my puppy. But I am not writing this to tell anyone how to handle panic. That answer will be different for each person, and I sure as hell don't know what it is. I write this to say, I’ve been in the deep end with mental health. I’m in it right now. If you only know the social media version of me, it may seem like I’m managing. Like I have it “figured out”. The truth is, somedays I forget how to breathe. So, this is me saying to anyone else feeling this way “I’m here too. I’m with you”. To me, the best part about being human is none of us are alone in our pain. Someone understands. Maybe today, I can be that someone.