Before you start reading, it should be mentioned that the article below deals with my personal experiences of severe anxiety, panic disorder, death, and suicide. It is important to me to write on these subjects, but your mental health is of the utmost priority. Should this material seem too intense or overwhelming for you at the moment, please feel free to skip it.
You’re not alone if you’re going through a difficult time. If you need help, get in touch with a reliable professional or call or text 988 to speak to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
“It’s just anxiety,” my doctor said. It was December 2nd, 2023, and I was in the emergency room, having my first panic attack. The room was lined with about ten recliners, each one cradling a patient waiting to be discharged. I was drenched in sweat, my muscles twitching, my chest burning and tight, my heart pounding, dizzy and gasping for air. I’d checked my vitals when the nurse first took them: my blood pressure was perfect, my heart rate was in the 90s, but my oxygen levels were low. That’s what’s wrong with me, I thought; something is wrong with my heart. As I struggled to breathe, the doctor approached. I looked up and saw her: a petite woman, maybe five feet tall, blue eyes and short blonde hair, not much older than me, her face without an expression. When she spoke those words, I was stunned. How could she be so dismissive? Maybe it WAS anxiety, but how could she say it so plainly, so devoid of empathy?
Now that I’ve healed, I can see from her perspective, somewhat. Even in the chaos of my panic attack, a small, logical part of my brain noticed she spoke to me just as her medical school textbooks must have taught her. Still, I can’t help but wonder if she had walked in my shoes, would she see things differently?
That, my friends, is why I want to share my story. I hope that anyone who reads it will pause before speaking or judging someone going through the same thing, because when anxiety or panic attacks strike, our minds are consumed by terror. In those moments, we need someone to anchor us with empathy, not condescension.
I am also writing my story because I want to honor my incredible family. Without their unwavering support, I truly don’t know what I would have done. I owe them everything. If I could, I would erase every painful moment I put them through: every frantic trip to the emergency room, every time I lashed out because they didn’t believe I was dying (even though I wasn’t), every tear they shed out of helplessness. I treasure them now and always.
Hi, my name is Liz. I am 34 years old, and my panic disorder began back in 2022.
Although my anxiety journey began in 2022, my first panic attack didn’t strike until 2023. But I want you to know the whole story, because it wasn’t just one moment that led me there. It was a collection of small situations, brewing quietly for months, until my body simply couldn’t take it anymore.
I’ll start off by saying that I was actually already prone to anxiety, having been diagnosed back in 2017 with a generalized anxiety disorder, PTSD, and major depressive disorder (which turned out to be executive dysfunction from ADHD-more on that later), but nothing prepared me for the panic disorder that I would experience.
The panic disorder made me lose all sense of reason, but one thing never left me: the urge to capture every important moment. My family knows this about me. I love taking pictures, filming videos, even recording audio whenever we’re together for something special. They joke that whenever I’m in the room, everyone should be on alert—Liz might be recording, LOL. And that is what I will share with you here: diary snippets, pictures, videos, and glimpses into what my everyday symptoms and healing journey were like.
As far as the symptoms, there were dozens, over time they kept worsening. I started sweating at night, then the insomnia set in and with that, the heart palpitations began. I’d wake up to phantom gunshot sounds in my ear, my muscles spasming constantly, my nerves burning with ant crawling-like sensations in my arms and legs. My body would suddenly turn cold, as if some kind of claw-machine had dipped me into a bath full of ice. I even had pelvic spasms, internal body tremors, depersonalization (feeling like a game npc player) and voice changes. Then the worst began: you know that feeling when you’re asleep and dream you’re falling, so you wake up suddenly with your heart pounding? That happened to me every fifteen minutes, every single night for weeks. I couldn’t sleep at all.
Time passed and the nausea took over—I couldn’t keep food down. I lost 25 pounds in a month. My thoughts raced; I couldn’t think straight. Even as I felt lost, I clung to hope for the future. I kept telling myself I would get through this, that I was strong enough. And I did. I am deeply proud of myself—of everything I’ve overcome and the woman I am today.
Strangely, I am also grateful. There were so many moments when I wished I could go back to who I was before, but without this disorder, I would never have become the woman I am now. She is stronger, wiser, and more loving than ever.
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