Right before starting back at Danbury for my junior year of High School, I had my first panic attack. I had been in summer school for math, and it came out of nowhere! I had no idea what was happening. So I asked to use the bathroom and immediately rushed to call my Dad.
When I called, I could only talk in bursts; I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My Dad instantly knew it was a panic attack and also explained that I was hyperventilating.
He tried to calm me down, told me to focus on my breathing. As I was trying to breathe, one of the gym teachers came into the bathroom, saw me on the phone, and instantly started to yell at me. All I could do was squeak out, “Can’t…breathe…”. My dad heard her yelling at me and said that he was coming to pick me up.
The gym teacher apologized, but she had been mean and loud; she had only made it worse. I had no idea what a panic attack was! And I was still shaking by the time my Dad got to the school to pick me up.
Dad knew how to calm me down; he was an expert at it. (I hadn’t known at the time that my Dad too suffered from terrible anxiety.) He explained nothing was physically wrong with me, that it was all in my head, all mental. I said to him, “I don’t understand, why did I have one?” My Dad said that he thought it might have been because I was starting back at a newer, bigger high school. Along with the divorce and moving. Which makes perfect sense once said out loud.
The panic attacks started happening more often towards the end of junior year, but they weren’t anything I couldn’t handle. Or so I thought. I had been doing good in school; home was okay. It wasn’t always perfect, but for the most part, things were okay.
I think in my head, I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things were going too well, and that hadn’t happened in a long time for me, so I was skeptical. And I think it scared me because I knew deep down that things were never going to be 100% stable. It wasn’t going to work like that, and I knew it.
There is a specific panic attack I remember that had been worse than the others. I was at the mall for the fireworks with a bunch of people I had become friends with at school. Again, wham! Out of nowhere, I started to feel my breathing shorten, my body shaking.
Once more, I called my Dad. It just wasn’t going away, and I didn’t know what to do. When I called, he didn’t hesitate and said he was on his way to pick me up.
I didn’t know until he picked me up that he had been out on a date when I called. I felt terrible; I ruined his night. But that was my Dad for you, he always (when he was sober) put me first. And I am so grateful for that.
He took me back to our little condo and we watched a movie together. Dad always had this way of knowing what to say to make things better, plus I know it killed him to see me feel the way I did.
It’s funny because it’s been a LONG time since I’ve thought about those beginning panic attacks. They wouldn’t be my last either. They came and went, but when my Dad passed away, my anxiety grew to heights of anxiety I didn’t know were possible before.
But it was nice to know how much my Dad helped me in the beginning and even in between.
It’s another memory to look back at and smile. Yes, even over panic attacks. Dad was there for me when I needed him. And even though I wish he could have been there more, and I wish we never had to go through our ups and downs, it’s those little things that make me remember who he really was.