A Thank You Letter To My Panic Attacks

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I love you. I never thought I’d feel this way, especially after how I felt the first time you came into my life. You hurt me. You made me feel sick. I thought I might die, actually. I was frozen in physical agony, but also emotional misery, unable to leave my bed, stuck, for hours with you. I wanted comfort, sweetness, grace, really anything else, but you are what came to my bedside. Panic. A rock in my stomach. Sweat plastering my hair to my head. Tears streaming down my face, making my pillow damp.

I never felt so alone as in the hours and minutes I spent locked in a room with you.

Maybe you think it’s very codependent of me to say I love you, then.

Let me be clear. I don’t want to stay together. I’m not saying that. I would be OK if we never spend another minute together, actually.

But I do love you—and I’ll tell you why.

You came into my life at the exact moment I needed you. Before you arrived, I was under a spell. I was able to pretend that I was fine when I was anything but. I was able to say the magic words and poof, the bad things would fade away into the background. The wrinkles would smooth out, and a fog would set in. Memories are gone. Bad memories, sure, but good ones, too. I don’t remember my baby. I remember him a little. I have pictures of him, and videos. I have flashes of him, with his cheek against mine, while I shushed him. But I don’t remember most of his first year. It’s all smooth and foggy.

It kills me now to realize how big and lasting the gaps that fog left really are.

And then you came knocking and refused to be ignored. You would not be forgotten. You had something to say. You said, “Pay attention to me. Pay attention to everything around you. Feel it. See it.” I didn’t want to. It was too loud, too bright. I felt like an exposed nerve walking around in the world. Everything hurt. Listening to music hurt. The feel of the wind hurt. As cliché as it is, the truth hurt. I was hiding from some big truths about my life that needed my attention.

I didn’t like what you wanted to show me, but I needed to see it. So, thank you.

You took me by the hand—a bit roughly, I might add—and dragged me back to the truth. You dragged me up a very large and steep hill, and I huffed and puffed and sweated, my heart pounding the whole time. You dragged me up above the fog, to where I could see the truth. And where we found the truth, we found me again. That’s why I love you. I was very lost in that fog.

Still, you’re not much fun, you know that? You’re not very good at a party, or on a date. You’ve ruined some potentially good dates. You don’t need to accompany me to the doctor, either. I’ve got it, thanks.

You know what you are good for, though? Teaching me empathy. Before you came around I had sympathy for people with anxiety. Now, I know what it feels like and I can be a better friend, parent, and person.

You changed my life.

You taught me I don’t have to run away anymore. Not from anyone else, but most importantly, from myself. I don’t have to avoid my own feelings, even if they make me feel guilty. I don’t need to disassociate, shut down, or forget. I can hold them. I can do it. I don’t need to fight my own mind or body. Even if you do come calling, I won’t break. I’ll make it through just fine with or without you.

Usually these love letters would say it’s harder to be without you, but for us, it would be easier to be without you. If you do decide to stay, though, I won’t fight you.

I’ll treat you like a wave. When I was a kid I’d play in the ocean with my cousins. We’d go out past where most of the waves would break. We’d hop up and down as the crests of each wave carried us. Sometimes a wave would break early, though. These were usually big ones. Kinda scary, sort of dangerous ones, actually. If you fought the wave, it would bowl you over. This did happen to me a few times. If the wave bowled us over, we’d go spinning away with it, rolling over and over as we made our way to the shore. I almost drowned once. When I stood up, my hair looked like a spiral.

In a lot of ways, you remind me of those big waves.

What my cousins and I learned on that beach, though, was that the best way to avoid the chaos of a wave is to dive under it—and that’s what I think I’ll do with you, if we ever meet again. I won’t fight it, won’t try to overcome it. I can’t. It’s bigger than me. Instead, I’ll close my eyes against the salt, trust myself to come back up again, and dive under the water. It’ll be cold and dark and a little scary, but I’ll kick my legs to the surface. When I come up, I’ll need to take a big breath and prepare myself to go back down if another wave comes. I might need to head back to shore and find my people if the water’s getting choppy. Or, when I come up, the sea might be calm. I might get to float or splash around in peace. No matter what, I’ll have made it through this wave.

Thank you for all you’ve shown me. If this is goodbye, so be it. If we meet again, it will be as friends.

Love,
Laura

• How to tell the difference between a panic attack and an anxiety attack, and how to manage both.
• Read one woman’s (not so) love letter to her anxiety.
• Understand your anxiety and how to identify if you need support.