More History

Before I really get into things, I want to make one thing clear: I have never been, nor am I now, suicidal.

Now that that's out of the way, let me start with something more interesting: Panic attacks are like throwing up.  There's a slow build up of pressure and anxiety until finally you explode.  But, even exhausted, you feel better after.  Like now, for instance: I had an anxiety attack about twenty minutes ago.  It started about half-an-hour before that.  The time leading up to it, I spent telling myself it was okay, I was okay, don't look at the moon, because the moon reminds you you are small and you don't like that, you're almost there, it's okay, it's just depression, you've made it through before, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

I never believe myself when I say these things.  But somehow they all end up being true.  I am okay.

I started having panic attacks the August before I turned fifteen.  I had just lost all of my "friends" (by being ostracized for no real reason), we moved across town, and I was beginning high school.  Apparently this was just enough stuff to stress me out to the point of random bursts of extreme emotion, usually crying, that would only stop when it was good and ready.  I still remember the very first time, how I didn't understand what was happening to me, what was wrong with me, why was I having these thoughts?

The thoughts that tend to occupy my mind when I am in the middle of a panic attack involve mortality.  I think about the death of my parents, I think about my own death, I think about how the stuff I own now (all of that stuff!) will one day no longer belong to me.  It won't belong to anyone.  I think about how the body I now use to type these very words will decay and disintegrate, I think about how the words I type now will be dead words.

For seven years now, I've been experiencing this.  After the first few months of it, I opted to see my doctor.  At that point, I was having at least one panic attack a week.  They weren't really triggered by anything, unless I happened to think of something like the things above.  Sometimes they would just start and for no reason that I could discern.  Depression started sinking in, too.  School became something I dreaded, whereas before I looked forward to it.  Getting out of bed was next to impossible.  I slept frequently after school and did the minimum of everything.  I didn't talk to many people and I kept to myself.

When I went to see the doctor, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety.  I resisted the diagnosis because I was a teenager: teenagers are supposed to be depressed and anxious.  I no longer resist the diagnosis.  I am no longer a teenager.  The doctor suggested I see a therapist, so we set up an appointment and for a few months, I went.  I found the therapy sessions to be more stress-inducing than helpful.  Every session felt like I was being blamed for everything and the panic attacks became more frequent as fall melted into winter.

After we determined therapy alone was not helping, I was prescribed Lexapro.  This is another first I remember distinctly.  I threw it up the first day.  The second day, Mom sat next to me on the couch while I tried to take the second pill.  Then I tried to eat an English muffin to help keep the pill down.  It was the hardest meal I've ever eaten.  I hardly got one half of it down while I broke down into tears, frustrated that things just couldn't be okay again.  I had no appetite and every bite was a struggle.  I would bring the food up to my mouth and then drop it again, not feeling the energy or willpower to take a bite and chew.

Another instance I remember, either before I began the medication or just after, occurred when we were still allowed to use cell phones between classes.  I felt a panic attack coming on -- by then I had figured out what it felt like to have one approaching -- and called Mom.  I was in the science building and the call dropped.  I went to class.  Mom was worried enough that she called the school and they sent someone to find me.  She thought I might have passed out in the hallway.  I went home, feeling ill and anxious.

I stopped going to therapy shortly after.  The pills started to work.  I've been on them ever since.  They aren't perfect, and they're not for everyone, but for now, it's something I don't think I'll ever get away from.  It's scary to think that my happiness is artificial but it's better than living in fear all the time.

Now, I'm off to sleep.  Panic attacks these days usually occur when I'm overwhelmed and stressed out.  Things will have to wait, though.  Right now, I need the rest.