My Big, Fat Panic Attack - pt 3

This is Part Three of a 3-part post. Check out Part One and Part Two. Or you can read the whole thing in one post.

INT. ROSE’S LIVING ROOM, NIGHT.

Our heroine is curled up on her sofa and freaking the fuck out, clutching her chest like she’s having a heart attack.

But, of course, I wasn’t. Though in some ways, a heart attack might have been a little bit easier for me to understand.

The night that my panic attack finally hit me was... Not awesome.

There was a lot of crying and scary thoughts. Lots of wishing that I would feel better and, when that wouldn’t work, simply wishing that I couldn’t feel anything. No such luck, though.

Eventually, miraculously, I somehow did get to sleep. Crying is pretty exhausting, if you’re really putting your back into it.

I hoped I would feel better in the morning.

I didn’t.

When I thought about going into work to do an 8-hour shift at Corporate Coffee, I felt like my chest was caving in.

I tried to imagine getting dressed, driving over, and clocking in--but my brain kept getting stuck on a fantasy about steering my car into a traffic median so I wouldn’t have to go to work.

Here’s a useful tip: if you start thinking bonkers shit like this, do not try to tough it out. Do not do anything. Just freaking stop for a second, okay? I wish someone had bothered telling me this.

That day, I didn’t go to work--and I felt like a total asshole about it.


I felt so guilty and so sure that my boss would yell at me that I never even called to say I wasn’t coming. This is extremely unlike me. I’m the sort of person who’d never call off in the first place, let alone just not show up.

But then what could I really say?

Yeah... Not gonna happen.

I knew I should tell my boss what was going on, but it was like I had just asked myself to pick up a car and throw it over my head. I was too weak. I simply couldn’t muster the energy to actually TALK.

I knew my co-workers were going to wonder where I was. And probably be super mad at me for messing up everything. Soon, the phone calls and texts would begin rolling in. Even if I put my phone on silent, I would still know they were there, the screen flickering at me, accusing me every time I got a new message from an irate supervisor.

I couldn’t do it. “It” meaning...

Everything. Anything.

Simply existing was tiring enough.

So, that day, I did something I had never done before: I turned off my phone and blocked out the world.

At the time, this felt like such a bullshit move. I told myself that I should have been stronger than this. That I should never run away from anything, ever. I was a quitter and a coward, which were just about the worst things anyone could be.

Even so, I turned off my phone.

For some people, this might be a harbinger of doom. But for me, it was the first thing that I had done in a really long time to actually take care of myself.

I let myself be tired and weak. I didn’t force myself to be brave, or at least, pretend to be brave. For the first time, I gave myself permission not to DEAL with things all the time.

I just let myself survive, instead.

So yeah. There’s more to the story, of course. After I poked my head back into the world, plenty of awkward conversations awaited me at Corporate Coffee.

Running away may not have been the most sensible solution, but it was what I needed to do for myself.

For now, I’m taking things day by day, trying to take care of myself. Sometimes, I worry that I’ll freak out again. The possibility of this scares me. A lot, on some days.

But then I try to remember that I can live through it again. Maybe I’ll come back even stronger, like a once-broken bone.

Because, sometimes, you fall down. And that’s okay. Sometimes, you have to be strong enough to let yourself be frail.