Not to sound like I’m an antsy 15 year old unable to find the right way to fit in, I feel absolutely helpless and full of despair.

It sounds dramatic. It feels genuine.

I’ve been stuck at home for the past week. I’ve left one home, to go to another home and I’ve made a visit or two to Walgreens. I’ve taken some walks and I’ve talked on the phone. Other than that I’ve had little to no socialization.

Tonight I thought, hey I’m feeling good, I’ll go meet up with a friend and have dinner. 10 minutes after I arrive, I feel the cold numbing sensation sweep through my stomach. It flows up my arms and firmly embeds into my shoulders. I look pleadingly at Andrea who is unaware and continues on talking. Finally, I grab my purse and tell her I have to go. I dizzily walk to my car, grab my water bottle and tell my self to breathe. Slowly through the nose, out through the mouth. In… out… My mind races, I can’t think straight, should I drive home? I can’t make it. Should I run back inside to the bathroom? I can’t make it. I grab my xanax and pop one in. Not enough, my heart slows, but the tension is still there the anxiety creeps back in. How much is too much? Can I drive home? Where’s Andrea?

I take another one. Andrea arrives and she thankfully drives me home. Two blocks away and I burst into tears. If having a physical attack wasn’t enough, here comes the emotional. I can’t even imagine what really makes me feel the way I do during and after a panic attack. I feel helpless. I feel despair. I feel like I’ll never get better. I’ll never be able to leave the house again. I feel overwhelmingly sad. Crying after a panic attack, to me, is nothing short of hysterical. I can’t stop. I go in to talk to my father and it just gets worse. “Are you feeling better?”

“I don’t feel anxious. I just feel sad.”