“Just another white girl looking for attention. They’re just weak and not dealing with their shit. They did it to themselves by creating a stressful life. You’re in control of your happiness.”

— all things I used to think when one of my girlfriends complained about anxiety.

Chapter 1: Depression, anxiety, and manic behavior took my childhood away. Not because I had it personally, but because it ran my household. Everyone walked on egg shells as to not disrupt the manic being that occupied my mother. It consumed her like any killer disease. Polio, cancer, AIDs. And I thought it was ridiculous. So as soon as I mustered the courage to leave that home, I did (under other justifiable circumstances as well). That was almost 5 years ago.

Chapter 2: I had my first panic attack in June of 2016. I was confused. Terrified. Shocked. Literally breathless. At the time I didn’t know what “triggers” were. It just showed up. In my car. Late at night. Panicked. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. My then best friend turned boyfriend took control of the situation because I wasn’t functioning at all. I had become a heap of flesh whose only capability was to convulse and cry. At which point I could only repetitively mutter with closed eyes, “I don’t want to be my mom, I don’t want to be like my mom”.

I see the harshness in that phrase. My mother birthed me. Raised me right. Gave me all the food, shelter, and name brand clothes that I wanted. She was a leading example of service to others and her children. Even with anxiety. But just like any good or bad parent, she f*ck up her child in some way. This was one of those ways.

I had vowed to never let my life get as out of control as her’s was.

Chapter 3: I immediately sought counseling to manage my panic attacks and the feelings I was having towards my family. I thought professional help would stop my panic attacks. It didn’t. What counseling actually did was make me aware of the chronic anxiety I’d been suffering from for the past year and a half. For 18 months, I was mistaking my symptoms as adult on set asthma. After multiple inhalers weren’t helping me breathe any easier, I gave up and just dealt with the chest tightness. Thanks Doc for the misdiagnosis. It was anxiety all along.

With the new awareness of anxiety in my life, I tried a myriad of tactics to keep it under control. Meditation. Self awareness. Working less. Journal writing. Traveling. Cognitive behavior therapy (CBT). Birth control to balance hormones. I threw those damn pills in the trash this morning after recognizing a rise in the severity and frequency of panic attacks since taking them.

Chapter 4: December 19, 2016. 10 am. Four paramedics and a police officer are at my door because I feel myself passing out from hyperventilation. I was home alone. I called out of work. I called out of life. I was so mentally exhausted and honestly, embarrassed, that I slept the rest of the day to “control alt + delete” any mind’s eye of those weak 24 hours.

Chapter 5: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I never understood this illness before. I only wanted to share my story because I’ve been such a critic in the past, and I want to be here now to say “I understand”. And you are going to fight through this. If it means having a panic attack every day for the rest of your life… you are going to make it out alive. And happy. And successful. And brilliant. All while balancing the burden of anxiety. Because this illness… these side effects… they don’t represent your character. Your character is represented in what you do through this disease. So get the help you need. And fight like hell every 👏 single 👏 f*cking 👏 day.

Let’s make 2017 a year for mental health awareness. For acceptance, change, and lots of healing. Upward and onward.