The first panic attack I
ever remembered having I think I was around twelve. The details of the triggers
or the event itself are hazy. But, oh, how I remember my current ones. I lose
time as if I’m outside myself. My brain a misfiring of billions of neurons, I
recognize them for the way my skin feels. It’s like it’s not…mine. Foreign and
cumbersome, almost like a cheap suit that’s too tight and the legs too short.
Millions of bugs crawling beneath my skin. I pick, scratch, attempt to hurt
myself for it to go away. It’s only when I skip my count, my prayer beads don’t
spin as smoothly as I roll them between trembling thumb and forefinger that the
rage starts.
Hallucinations form with
the building crescendo of every labored breath—each more ragged and painful
than the one before it. Time ceases and I’m frozen, skinning the flesh from my
arm, setting myself on fire, removing fingers, and driving 100 miles per hour
into oncoming traffic and it doesn’t stop. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour goes
by and I’m back, yet always a piece missing. I know I should feel terrified,
no, horrified at what my mind devises for me. Yet I’m not.
