It’s been a week, and I still can’t catch my breath.
The morning sun warms my cold cheeks, thawing them after the 30-minute commute from the hotel to work, where the AC had been on full blast.
I barely recall the drive, only the gospel music blaring through the speakers at full volume, ironing out the tight knots in my chest. It’s the only thing that keeps the triggers at bay.
Maybe I can stay and work a full day today, I tell myself, hope framing my thoughts like a halo of light lining the clouds on a stormy day.
You couldn’t yesterday, I remind myself, though it’s more of a sneer this time.
I swallow the lump in my throat and lift my head higher. When I enter the office building, my breathing becomes labored. I grip the strap of my purse slung around my shoulder and will my legs to move, leading my mind and spirit into battle.
You’re fine.
There’s no reason to dwell on the fact that I feel like I’m constantly on edge, waiting for the drop like a roller coaster about to plummet from its peak.
The ground spins beneath me, causing my steps to falter. I inhale deeply and gently shake my head, as if trying to snap myself out of a daze.
I’m recovering from an ear infection and the antibiotics haven’t kicked in yet. After waking up one morning and nearly falling out of my hotel bed from the dizziness, I paid the doctor a visit.
Peering through the otoscope into my left ear, he casually says, “You’ve got a bit of fluid in your ear. I’ll put you on some antibiotics and you should be good to go.”’
I was so relieved to hear that spinal fluid wasn’t leaking into my brain (thanks, WebMD), that I could have grabbed the short, bald doctor from the lapels of his white coat and kissed him.
I didn’t, but when someone who likely spent 10 years in medical school and is now swimming in $200,000 in student debt tells you that you are not dying, your senses are liable to become temporarily dulled from the high levels of relief flooding your system.
The short, bald doctor sent me away with a prescription for liquid antibiotics (after I begged him because I hate swallowing pills) and a steroid pack.
I’d be back to myself in no time.
It’s been three days, and I am the furthest from myself than I’ve ever been. I dont recognize the woman in the mirror, with the dark circles under her eyes and her gaunt cheekbones.
But you’re on medication now, so it’s fine. You’re fine.
Multiple pairs of eyes settle on me as I enter the office.
Don’t forget to smile.
Like a robot, I plaster a huge smile onto my face, trying not to wince as I inhale through my teeth. Blinking back the dizziness, I saunter to my desk in large confident strides.
“Morning!” I practically yell to everyone in the room.
Overcompensating for lack of enthusiasm is exhausting.
Four hours later, the afternoon sun beats down on my tear-stained cheeks and my red, puffy eyes feel raw from rubbing them with the heels of my hands.
I sit on a curb on the side the building, next to two dumpsters, looking out into a field of dead grass. I turn my phone over in my hands and sniffle, wiping the excess tears and snot on my arm because I’m an idiot and ran out of the building without tissue again. After doing this for three days in a row, you’d think I’d learn.
I spent the last 30 minutes crying on the phone to my boyfriend, and then my mom, about how I feel like an empty shell of who I once was. At least, I think that’s how I expressed it — they might not have understood me through my sobs.
My appetite disappeared a few days ago, and my stomach feels heavy, as if it’s filled with rocks instead of food.
I’m hungry for home. This month-long work trip is taking its toll, making me feel far from everything that makes me feel safe.
My hands tremble with the beat of my racing heart. My breaths are shallow, and no matter how many times I blink, I’m still here, alone.
After five minutes of trying to convince myself to go back inside, I finally rise on shaky legs and head towards the building entrance.
You’re fine.
I don’t believe it, but I keep repeating it.
You. are. fine.
No. You’re not.
When I open the door to my office, I stagger back and clutch at my chest. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps and my lungs feel like they’re inhaling shards of glass. Around me, everyone remains immersed in their daily tasks, completely unaware of the internal storm threatening to rip me apart from the inside out.
My heart settles in an unpredictable rhythm. First, it pounds against my ribcage like a prisoner trying to escape its cell, then, there’s an abrupt pause— an empty void where my heartbeat should be. My heart continues to skip, and pound, and pause all while my legs buckle beneath me. I reach out and grab hold of nothing while tears fill my vision.
My lungs, full of glass, constrict and leave me lightheaded and disoriented. I am teetering on the edge of consciousness and I don’t know how to make myself wake up.
I am dying.
I hear muffled voices in the background calling my name. Hands grip my arms, gently guiding me backward until I’m seated. Immediately, I hunch over my knees, struggling to catch my breath but my glass lungs lag behind.
You are dying.
My God, I believe it. I am about to die.
After what feels like an eternity, the distant voices grow closer, as if I’ve just been pulled from water onto the shore. The embarrassment finally hits when I am lying on the faded brown leather couch in my co-workers office, a stethoscope resting on my chest.
My mom is on speaker phone, her voice frantic and in sync with my erratic heartbeat.
It wasn’t until after my second episode and my first ER visit later that night that I realized I had experienced my first anxiety attack.
It wasn’t until later that week that I realized the worst season of my life had only just begun.
-k.a.
“In the multitude of my anxieties within me, Your comforts delight my soul.”
Psalms 94:19, NKJV
Authors Note:
This story is based on true events and is to be continued.
You are loved and you are not alone.
Not alone. My first anxiety attack was high school. Had a few since. While I don’t know the circumstances of yours, they can get better. He is faithful.
Thanks for sharing your vulnerability with Kiana🩵 your words make me feel so seen