Real Talk: Last Night, I Had a Panic Attack.

Ever since I hit grade 12, I haven’t been shy to talk about my mental illness when I’m approached. I consider it really important for people to speak out about their struggles with mental illness because it’s all very internal, and people always think they are alone.

Today, the subject of mental illness has really been weighing heavily on my heart. So I thought I would share my story in full so it’s out there for people who feel all alone to find, and know that they aren’t by themselves.

So here it is:

From the day I was able to make conscious thought, I was a nervous person.

I can’t tell you how many times as a child I was so nervous about different things, that it caused a lot of fear, crying, and an unwillingness to do things that made me feel that way. Looking back on it now, I realize I worried an unhealthy amount, definitely way more than a child should.

I remember when I was in the first grade, we all had to take care of a beetle. Our teacher gave each of us a plastic container with a little handle, filled with dirt and sticks, and one little beetle. I was getting on the bus one morning, holding this tiny container, when I tripped on my way down the narrow aisle. My container hit the ground, bursting open, and my blue beetle zipped away and out the window. I was so horrified, I began to cry.

Not because I was hurt, or was sad about losing my newfound pet, but because I was so extremely worried. What would my teacher say? Would she be mad at me? Would my mark on this insignificant beetle project suffer? I cried and cried, overwhelmed with this anxiety that my actions would have the scariest consequences.

When I got to school, my teacher wiped my tears and told me she’d give me another beetle when I tried to apologize over my shaking sobs.

Maybe that should have been my first warning sign.

I was that kid that cried over spilled milk. All because I was worried about what would happen, what kind of trouble I’d get into, what kind of inconvenience I was causing others. But at this point, I was thought of as nothing more than “sensitive” by my teachers, my parents, my peers… It was just one of those things that kids outgrew eventually.

Except, I never really grew out of it.

My whole life, I’ve lived with a constant nagging feeling that something will go wrong. Think about the strange sense of nervousness you get right before a big test; your head feels foggy, your hands are pretty clammy, and your body is tingling with a sense of dread. That’s kind of how I feel, for the most part of my life.

As I grew older, life became more stressful. With that, it became much harder to handle this constant throbbing of anxiety hidden deep within my chest.

Throughout my childhood, I was considered “very bright”. I was always a few steps ahead, and brought home report cards full of straight A’s. Somehow, in my weird mind of mine, I got it into my head that any sort of failure would result in disappointment from my family and friends, and that absolutely could not happen.

It’s crazy how interconnected anxiety and perfectionism are.

My second warning sign came around the time I was 12-years-old. I was in the seventh grade, and we were doing an assignment in math. We were using a computer program to complete a package of worksheets on geometry.

Absolutely everyone was struggling. The program did not have a user-friendly interface, especially for pre-teens who were still kinda new at the whole “tech savvy” thing. I remember I was so stressed about it.

One of my friends was teasing me about the assignment, but they seemed to take note of my mounting distress. “Carole,” they said, “don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

And I lost it.

“It’s not going to be fine!” I snapped, feeling a rush of tears in my eyes, the painful knot of worry pulsing hard inside my heart. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t!”

My friend’s face was bewildered, scared even. They slowly inched away from me.

Everyone left me alone, hoping I’d get better with some space.

It wasn’t until grade 10, that I knew something was wrong.

I was struggling to understand grade 10 academic math. I wanted to, but it was the beginning of the year, and I was just having so much difficulty. Something that once seemed so natural to me, was foreign in front of my very eyes.

I remember the day I got one of my unit tests back. This strange numbness overwhelmed my whole body. My head felt like I was lost in the clouds, my body was moving on its own. All I could feel was that familiar sense of panic. That fear, that worry, because I didn’t know what I was going to do next.

Everything was all blurry. I moved in a subdued autopilot to my locker, grabbed my lunch, went into the cafeteria and sat beside my best friend. I must have looked like a ghost, because he looked at me with a very concerned expression. “Carole….? Are you okay?”

And I just started to cry.

All at once all these emotions just broke into a big mess that I couldn’t sort through. “I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!” is all I could say over and over again. The whole room was spinning, I couldn’t breathe, nothing in my body was cooperating.

It took me half an hour to calm down and stop sobbing.

My friends were shaken. They didn’t know how to help me. They tried their best, they really did. One of my friends bought me a cookie when I stopped crying, trying to cheer me up. I was just tired from my strange outburst of panic. I wanted to go home.

That was the moment I knew there was something wrong with me.

No one else ever had moments like that. I remember things that would bring me to tears would not even phase some of my friends. I felt like an outsider in my own body. Why did everything make me so worried? Why did I panic about everything?

This continued on for the whole semester. And then I put grade 10 math behind me, and tried to keep going about my life like everything was normal.

But I wasn’t okay.

Grade 11 hit me hard, just like grade 10 did. I cried about math tests, wiped away the tears, and told myself to keep going. I had to keep pushing. I had to keep ignoring how I felt. I just had to get through it. Everything will be fine, I would say to myself. That didn’t help the overwhelming nerves I got when I was waiting for my teacher to hand back my test paper.

Soon, I found that this nervousness never left me. It was always there. Even when I had nothing to worry about, I still felt stressed. I could try to relax for a while, but start feeling guilty and nervous that I was forgetting something.

It was exhausting.

I couldn’t sleep. I became afraid to be left alone with my own thoughts. I didn’t like lying in the dark while I began to overthink about almost anything until I felt like I would burst into tears. I would just stay up reading books, and stories people wrote online until I woke up the next day, not really sure when I fell asleep at all.

I didn’t know what to tell people. I didn’t understand why life just seemed so difficult for me. Something has to be wrong with me, I would always tell myself, everyone else seems to handle life so well. All I do is cry, and think about something bad that’s going to happen.

Then, I found out about anxiety on the internet.

I had met a few friends online from twitter, and they would always talk about their mental illnesses and such. So I looked it up. I read about generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorders, OCD… I remember the way my hands trembled, and how I cried alone in my bedroom. It felt too real. It felt like me.

I remember the day I told my mom I thought I had anxiety.

She was sitting on my bed when the smile from her face seemed to drop. “But… You’re so happy.”

I was happy. I’ve always been a smiley kid. I have a good life. But none of that seemed to matter when it was late at night, and I found myself crying just in fear of something bad happening in my life.

The next time I went to the doctor, I told her I thought I was anxious. She wrote me up a referral to a psychiatrist.

My dad took me to the psychiatrist’s office. If you hadn’t known better, it could’ve been any other doctor’s office. The room had a faded old brown carpet, tan coloured walls, beige seats. Everything was so monochrome, as though trying not to trigger anything inside somebody.

I didn’t see a psychiatrist that day. I saw a nurse. She had a questionnaire, to ask my questions about how I felt. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t let on to how bad my problems really were. I was scared.

The nurse thanked me for my time.

My dad and I left. We ate McDonalds for lunch, laughing and having a good time.

I didn’t hear back from the psychiatrist’s office for over a year.

In the meanwhile, I continued to navigate through life on my own. Grade 12 was one of the hardest, but also most rewarding years of my life. It was so complicated. I could go into so much detail, but I’d never be able to cover it all.

To try and summarize it all, I had a lot of stress; just as most grade 12s do. But paired with my anxiety and lack of outlet, I didn’t know how to cope. I was in grade 12 advanced functions, and I was suffering. I would get so anxious to the point where I couldn’t form a thought. I’d forget everything I’d learn, stare at a blank page, and have to hand in a test that wasn’t even half completed.

I remember going into my school guidance office to ask for an IEP, because I could not finish in time. I needed extra time.

I met with my guidance counsellor. We talked for a long time. She agreed to let me write my tests in the guidance office with extra time. But she also told me, I should see the school social worker for my anxiety.

That didn’t really help me either.

I was crumbling, falling apart at the seams. Almost every day I would leave first period math crying. Pair that with grade 12 stress, such as preparing for my university auditions, maintaining grades, a social life, working at my job. I was a mess.

My music teacher, bless her soul, was someone that really helped me during that time. She was always there for me when I needed her. She offered me advice that was hard to take, but beneficial.

My friends were always there for me when I was having a hard day.

I think if I didn’t have the support system of people I had, I would not be here today.

I finally met with a psychiatrist when I was starting to get better. I was trying to reorganize my life, change my way of thinking, learn to live without an overwhelming cloud of anxiety hanging over me.

I spoke with the psychiatrist about my experiences in the past few years. He told me, yes, I did have generalized anxiety disorder. If he had met me a year ago, he would have put me on medicine to help. But for the most part, I was doing well, learning to handle my anxiety on my own.

And I have been. For the past few months, I’ve been doing really well. I’ve been handling stress at my own pace, teaching myself how to go through things one at a time.

But just because I’m getting better, doesn’t mean it’s gone.

Yesterday, I had a panic attack.

Nothing in particular brought it on, but I felt it was coming. I was sitting at my kitchen table, just looking through my phone when I felt this nudging of nervousness start forming in the pit of my stomach. I usually try to ignore this, hoping it would go away. But it didn’t.

I hadn’t felt this way in months.

By the time I was in bed, my hands were shaking. I tried to focus on something else. I tried reading little stories online. It didn’t help. I started hyperventilating and crying, overwhelmed with anxiety that had no reason to exist.

Today, I’m here to tell you, that it was okay.

Yes, I had a panic attack.

Yes, it felt like I had lost all the progress I’ve made in the past few months.

Yes, it took me over an hour to calm down.

BUT,

I won’t let my mental illness define me.

I won’t allow for this to set me back.

I won’t let myself fall apart like I did before.

Mental illness is something powerful and scary. It’s truly terrifying to think that your own mind can be working against you. But I’m writing this long winded blog post to tell you that it is okay.

Do not let yourself suffer alone.

If I had gotten the help I needed earlier, so much of the strife I experienced could have been avoided.

There is nothing wrong with having a mental illness. It is not something that’s “all in your head”. There is a valid reason why you feel a certain way. Don’t ever let someone discredit how you feel.

If you think you are suffering from a mental illness, please tell a doctor.

Lastly, be strong. Your brain is a powerful tool. It fights against you with a vigour. But your brain is also yours. Fight with all your might. Even with medicine, with counselling, with all the help in the world, you still need to have the willingness to fight.

Mental illness is a battle I will be fighting probably until the end of my life. The key is to never stop. Because there is so much you are capable of, and so much that you can accomplish and nothing, not even mental illness can dare stop you.

I believe in you. And I believe in me.

Believe that things can always always get better.

And know that I am always always here if you need someone.

– Carole

Life’s Strange Happenings

Life is quite a funny thing sometimes.

For those of you that don’t know, I work part-time at a tutoring centre in my town (city, whatever, idk at this point). It’s a fun job and I truly enjoy it, however, it is not close to my side of town, and I have to take the bus to get there.

This week I’ve been working at the tutoring centre’s summer camps, and have had the privilege to ride the bus to/from work. Public transit scares the crap out of an anxious soul like me, but life is life and sometimes you gotta just do stuff! After all, I get some $$.

Today, one of my worst nightmares took place. I remember clearly the first day I took the bus to my piano lessons at our local mall. My lesson slot was too early in the afternoon for either of my parents to take me, so I had to take public transit for my own for the very first time. I remember the stress and anxieties I had, sitting on the bus by myself in a secluded seat tucked away at the back of the bus.

What if I miss my transfer?! I wondered to myself.

And I didn’t. Nothing particularly bad happened at all. I made it to piano in time, my dad picked me up from the mall, same old, same old life.

But of course, today I had to miss my transfer for the first time.

There was a huge rush of people when I got off the bus. The GO train had just chugged into the station and the loading dock for the buses was absolutely flooded with commuters on their way home. My poor heart nearly fainted.

I clutched my transfer ticket, scoping out the buses. I was looking for that prominent number 4, that I knew would take me home. I really don’t understand how they decide to line up the buses; considering the 2 is behind the 6, which is behind the 5, but whatever.

Anyhow, I stood at the spot where my bus normally parked. People were flying past me, obviously in a rush to get to their car, their bus, or whatever. I really just wanted to get on my transfer to ease my tachycardia-prone heart.

After a few moments of flurries, my bus never pulled up. In a panic, I began to run along the loading station, but could not find that number 4 I desperately searched for. Then to my horror, the long train of buses started to pull out of the station.

Silence.

There’s something eerie about standing at a bus station all by yourself, when moments ago, it felt like the loudest, most crowded place on Earth.

I was standing at the deserted bus station in utter horror. I’d missed my transfer bus.

And it wasn’t coming back for another half an hour.

At this point, I really wanted to cry and questioned whether or not I would die. I texted my best friend, trying to play it off as cool, but maybe I didn’t do it well enough, because he texted me simply: “just chill”.

So I guess I did what any anxious person does to chill, I sat down inside the bus shelter, and opened Pokemon Go.

(I can’t really use the app to its fullest potential because of my lack of data, but that’s another story.)

In my futile attempt to catch Pokemon using the crappy GO station WiFi, a small elderly Spanish lady came inside the bus shelter and sat beside me on the bench.

She was one of those grandmother type people, a friendly, open face, with deep laugh lines. Her clothes were just the slightest bit too large, that swallowed her body and made her look so tiny. She grinned and said, “Hello…. you speak… Spanish?”

Her accent wasn’t too thick. Spanish is very reminiscent of Tagalog, and it was easier for me to pick up her broken English. “Hm? No… Sorry,” I replied lamely.

She smiled, much like my own grandmother did when I asked her to teach me how to make her famous birthday cakes. “Ah… no Spanish…” She looked at my again with this thoughtful expression, “Are… Filipino?”

I was surprised she figured it out so easily, since most people tend to think I’m Chinese, due to the tiniest bit of Chinese blood in my family, and my body’s ability to take in every single one of those genes. “Yeah, I am.”

“I have…. what word…. daughter….. daughter-in-law. She Filipino.”

I hummed thoughtfully, not really sure why she had decided to tell me this, or strike a conversation with me really, but I didn’t have the heart to tell this sweet old lady to go away. Besides, I had 30 minutes to kill before the bus came back, so I might as well listen to what she had to say.

There was a pause.

After a few moments, she posed a question for me. “Do you know the truth?”

Here, her Spanish accent really came out, because I wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying at first. She had to repeat it for me at least 2 times, and at that point I didn’t really know what she meant at all.

What did she mean by “truth” exactly?

I shook my head. “No,” I replied sheepishly, not wanting to say yes, since I didn’t really know what she was talking about.

This grandmother sat up straighter at my response, “Ah… no… I see.” She looked into her bag before pulling out a pamphlet, written half in Spanish, half in English. And this random woman who I had never met before, who barely spoke English, tried her best to evangelize to me.

She began telling me about how Jesus died for my sins, adamantly with a tap of her hands showed how he was nailed to a cross. She talked about how we have life because Jesus paid for everything.

About 30 seconds into her speech, I realized what she meant by truth. She meant the Gospel. As a Christian myself, I wondered why I hadn’t caught on in the first place.

At any point I could have told her that I actually did know what the truth was, I just didn’t have the heart to tell her because she looked so happy that someone was willing to listen to her. She told me about her granddaughter who didn’t seem to have an interest in the Gospel, and how she wished they would read their bibles every day.

I was stunned by how much she was willing to share, even if I was a random stranger to her, that was sitting at the bus stop.

It was quite the humbling experience really. I’ve been a Christian my whole life. I was born into the church, raised on its teachings, yet I didn’t and still don’t have the courage to speak about the wonders of the Gospel with anyone, especially strangers. To think that this little grandmother who barely spoke English, who didn’t even know who I was, sat down beside me and decided to share the “truth” with me is incredible.

It was a great reminder to me that some Christians in this world are bold. They go out to be the salt of the Earth, as the Gospel commands us to be. However, in comparison to this Spanish grandmother, I fall desperately behind.

What’s stopping me? Fear of rejection? Anxiety? Pride?

It was quite convicting to me, and prompted me to take a look inside my heart. I hope I can one day have the servant’s heart this old woman had to be able to share the Gospel and my faith with all those around me.

And to think, all this happened because I missed my bus transfer.

Life is strange like that.

– Carole