I was making a grilled cheese for my 8-year-old when it began. My heart started beating fast, like I’d downed seven espressos in the middle of a marathon. Before I could take a breath, an overwhelming nervousness engulfed me. I placed my palms on the countertop and concentrated on the coolness. I knew the drill. I was on the verge of a panic attack — and I had a pretty good idea as to why.
I had panic attacks during my senior year of college. They continued on and off for two years before they stopped. When they first happened, I remember sobbing and telling my boyfriend I must be dying. I couldn’t figure out any other logical explanation for a pounding heart that felt like it was jumping out of my chest. What came next was a heightened sense of dread followed up by an eerie feeling of nothingness. I had no idea what to do.
I made an appointment with my doctor, and he ran all the tests
“I’m fine,” I answered without wondering if it was true
I said “I'm fine” more times than my son asks for snacks in a day. I pushed through feelings of unease because… well, I thought had to. I was overtasking and managing all the things. But as it turned out, it’s hard for me to strike a balance between being the ultimate caregiver while also asking for care from my family.
This new batch of panic attacks was a wake-up call
I’d clearly been putting myself last for far too long. The seeds of panic crept in because I was too late in taking care of myself. Now I’m taking steps to remedy that. I’m asking for help when those overwhelming feelings rise up instead of just powering through. I’m reminding myself that even a five-minute breathing break can do a world of good. But the biggest difference between this year and last year: I won’t be saying “I’m fine” unless I mean it.
