What I Learned From My First Panic Attack

I remember the first time I had a panic attack, though I didn’t know what it was at that time. It was the beginning of Fall in Montana and anyone who lives here knows that the biggest problem during these months is usually forest fires. They rage on and on and for myself and many others, the worst part about them isthe smoke.

We live in the Bitterroot Valley, surrounded by mountains so beautiful and majestic that I sometimes feel as though I’m living in a National Geographic Magazine. The only problem with the mountains is that during fire season they create a trap for smoke. It fills the valley and remains stagnant until our firefighters are able to contain the fires, or mother nature puts them out naturally with snow. Sometimes there is so much smoke that everyone has to drive around with fog lights on, and even then you can only see a few feet in front of you.

It was October of 2011. I was working training horses during the day and working as a “scarer” during the night at our local haunted corn maze. There wasn’t a lot of “bad” things going on in my life at that time. I loved my jobs and had a boyfriend that I adored. His parents were disapproving of our relationship and that took a toll on me but other than that life was pretty swell. My little sister’s brain tumor was stable, we lived in a house that I loved and I spent my days riding horses in what I consider to be the most beautiful place on earth. But the thing about anxiety is, sometimes it doesn’t matter how well things are going or whether you’re happy or not. Anxiety doesn’t have to make sense, it just is.

It started in my chest. A tightness I hadn’t ever felt before. “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” I would say this over and over for years to my mother and eventually to my husband, believing it to be true every time that it was said. But on this particular night, it was the first time. I couldn’t stop hyperventilating. My mom gave me an inhaler to try but nothing helped. I sat at the end of my parent’s bed trying to keep my cool even though I was positive that my death was imminent. My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it in my ears, I felt as though it would come out of my chest. Perspiration began forming on my forehead. I was going to die. I knew it. “We have to go to the hospital!”

In the middle of the night my mom drove me to the hospital while I hyperventilated in the seat next to her. No one in my family had experienced panic attacks before and she too thought that I was unable to breathe because of the smoke. We pulled up to the hospital and the nurse began taking down my information. It was taking too long. “When are they going to give me oxygen? Can’t they see I’m dying?” Those thoughts kept running through my head while I waited.

Finally the nurse began taking my vitals. Heart rate 125, respirations elevated. They placed the pulse oximeter on my finger. I waited impatiently for it to display my oxygen levels. And then… 98%. I didn’t understand how that could possibly be so. I wasn’t able to breathe, how could my oxygen be perfectly normal? Later the doctor came in.

I’ll never forget the first time a doctor explained panic attacks to me, because it was the first time I had a doctor speak to me so coldly. “It’s just a panic attack. It’s you not being able to control your emotions.” He then gave me a two week prescription of Xanax and sent me on my way. (More to come on my personal choice to avoid prescriptions for my anxiety in a later post.) I felt so ashamed. I was tough, everybody knew it. How could this happen to me? And what even is a panic attack? What’s wrong with me? These questions would haunt me for years, but I didn’t know it at the time.

The next two weeks were a blur of attempting to maintain my employment while being plagued with panic. I would do okay during the day, but every night during work I would wait in my spot in the corn, hoping that the customers could not hear me hyperventilating before I could jump out and scare them. Or hoping that it would at least add to the creep factor of being in a haunted corn maze. No one said anything so I guess I did okay. Somehow I survived that next couple of weeks/months/years, but it wasn’t easy. I’ll explain more of how I did that in later posts.

Although this experience was difficult for me, I look back at it now and am thankful. I’ve been having panic attacks off and on for about seven years now and it has shaped the person I am today. These experiences have helped me have more compassion for people and their circumstances. I appreciate times of peace more completely and am actively seeking out experiences that bring peace and happiness into my life. I enjoy the good times fully, because I know what it’s like on the other end. I cling to those I love and have become more aware of how their experiences affect me personally. I’ve grown physically, spiritually and emotionally during my battle with anxiety and will continue to do so exponentially. When you’re constantly in fear of losing your life, every second of it becomes precious. I guess I have anxiety to thank for that.