My First Panic Attack
I had my first panic attack when I was in preschool. I remember it like it was yesterday. The sweet teacher asked the class to put away everything but a pencil and a single sheet of paper. We had been studying our letters and it was time to for our first test. The assignment was to write the alphabet, both lower-case and upper-case letters, in proper order.
At first, I was filled with pride. I was confident I knew what I needed to know, and I wrote each letter as clean and clear as I was able. (I also couldn’t help but notice that I was even going faster than the other kids at my table.) But then, the worst thing I could have ever imagined happened… my perfect memory became cloudy, and when I got to the letter ‘Z’ I could not remember which direction it faced for the life of me. I wrote it, and I erased, then I wrote it again, and I erased, several times until I could physically feel the pride flooding from my body and become immediately replaced with fear.
When I noticed myself fighting tears, I started to contemplate how I could peak at my table-mates’ papers to help refresh my memory. Besides I knew the letter, I just couldn’t remember its direction. I determined it was ok to glance at the paper across from me, and even though I assured myself that this wasn’t a big deal; my body couldn’t help but respond otherwise. I became hot, my hands began to shake, and my heart started to race. I looked up, and the moment I could finally read the letter ‘Z’ across from me- my teacher tapped me on my shoulder. I lost it. I burst into tears in front of everyone and I could no longer conceal my shaking solely to my hands; it took over my entire body.
This was the moment I decided my anxiety deserved to be respected.
As utterly uncomfortable as it was to endure, I was grateful that it cared enough to let me know that failure was ahead. I didn’t take its efforts for granted, and we became very close friends. In fact, I valued my anxiety’s opinion more than anyone else in my life for many years following this experience. It seemed to be the only thing that was as afraid of falling short as I was. We made a clear exchange. It was responsible for making me aware of times I needed to prepare for failure, and I was responsible for doing the work that was required to keep us from experiencing it. We both understood that being comfortable (or peaceful) wasn’t a luxury we got to enjoy together, but this was the sacrifice our respect for one another understood.
Sound familiar? I lived this way for two decades, and it was a long journey to break the soul ties I had made with anxiety over that time. If anxiety is one of your closest relationships in your life, and you are tired of sacrificing comfort and peace; it might be a great time to see if therapy can help!