First Panic Attack at University

I come from a culture where mental health problems are ignored and invisible. Although I had the vocabulary to identify and describe the anxiety, panic attacks, and depression I believed that only ‘other’ people could experience these things and that I was somehow immune to them because of my loving family and fairly privileged middle-class upbringing.

I thought someone has to have experienced certain kinds of trauma to get depressed or anxious. So when I got my first panic attack during a class-wide event in my first year at Minerva, my university, the thing I felt most deeply was—shame. Was something wrong with me? How could I have lived such a lucky life and still feel so much stress that my body would freak out? Looking back, I’m grateful that we had a university counselor present at the event who rushed to guide me through one of the worst days of my life. We locked ourselves in a tiny room at the venue, and they guided me through what I felt as I cried and shivered. Ever since that day, attending any event with many people has been a challenge for me. I’ve had other students ask me why I don’t want to be part of the Minerva community, and I’ve struggled to answer it. Of course, the truth is that I was (and still am in many ways) fucking scared that I might get a panic attack and be the idiot who runs out of the room in the middle of some important thing. So for most of my Minerva life afterward, I shut myself out and disappeared as much as possible. I would grant myself one stressful class-wide event per semester that I helped organize. After that event, I would feel drained and anxious for a week or two. The shame also made me deeply depressed. And being in SF, I remember taking lonely walks by the bridge, praying for the courage to end my life. Although I was close to my family, I couldn’t talk to them, so I felt the loneliest I ever have during the time. I felt like a burden to them from afar, how could I call them from continents away and tell them I didn’t want to live? That I was therapy?

One day, in particular, I was locked in my single room crying, sad, self-harming, and messaging a close friend how deeply hopeless I felt. There was an event happening in the building, but I remember the rlc (residence life coordinator) coming to my door, knocking, worried, and asking me to open the door. I remember yelling, no. I remember crying myself dry and feeling so thirsty. Then a classmate knocked on my door, someone I knew but was still becoming good friends with. I let them come in. They saw the leaf of empty paracetamol tablets on my table and asked me how many I’d taken. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember them counting and calming down to realize I hadn’t taken enough to be of medical concern. I did feel nauseous, though; I hadn’t eaten in a while. I remember being hugged, fed, and then put to sleep. I remember feeling ugly and stupid that I didn’t know how many tablets to take to die. This person I barely knew slept with me in my bed to make sure I got to rest. I remember missing classes and going to therapy the next day. I walked to the building opposite the Minerva HQ and was alarmed by how loud everything was.

I don’t know where this story goes, but I want to tell you that I’m sharing this because I want to say a significant part of how I survived was because of the people around me. As days went by and more people knew how bad it had become for me, I had classmates bring me fruit cut into pieces, lending me their handkerchiefs, forcing me to eat, talking to me, hugging me, holding me, and letting me feel this through.

Trying to exist at Minerva with all these things I was feeling and trying to figure out was hard; I said mean things to people, I snapped, ran out of events, missed classes, took many extensions, almost left Minerva, and felt needy and lonely, and so much more. Taking classes and being called-on was also incredibly painful during this time; I remember the few classes where I left halfway cause I had a panic attack or just felt so anxious that I began to cry. I’m now remote and at home and have been going to therapy and working on me for a while, so it’s definitely gotten much better, and I’m much kinder to myself when I am struggling, but to be very honest, I still don’t know how I made it and continue to make it here. It’s not always easy; neither is it always difficult. I’ve become comfortable with not attending things if that’s what I need and not feeling guilty about it. I’ve become comfortable with having a few good friends with being clear to myself about that; I much prefer one on one conversation than those in groups. I’m more comfortable needing my family, needing therapy, and space to feel, but it still gets hard. My sister says this thing that always tears me up, and I want you to hear it too – ‘JUST BEING ALIVE IS SO DIFFICULT! AND YOU ARE DOING IT! I’m proud of you.’ 🙂