You Are Not Your Panic Attack

Anxiety doesn’t define you as a person

The worst panic attack I’ve ever had was at Firefly Music Festival in 2018.

My mental health had been steadily declining my senior year of college — uncertainty about my future, a collapsing family-life at home, issues with my then-girlfriend — and I felt increasingly anxious each day. At one point, I asked my mom for some of her Ritalin.

I was drinking a lot to cope, too, which is never a good solution. But I was 21, what better did I know?

The girl I was dating went to Firefly every year — it was near her hometown — so naturally she planned to attend that year as well. My college roommates also decided to go after seeing the lineup, and so, like them, I bought a ticket. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was freaking out.

My frequent bouts of depression and anxiety were wearing thin on my relationship, and for the first time in my life, crowds terrified me. Would I really be able to survive three days without showers, surrounded by partying?

As it turned out, I couldn’t even last one.

Firefly 2018, Camping

Our first day there was spent finding our camping spot and setting up. It didn’t take that long, but since there weren’t any bands to see we had nothing better to do than pop open some of the liquor and beer we’d brought, set up beer pong, and let loose.

I’ve never been “good” at day-drinking. I tend to get tired pretty quickly, so I was pacing myself.

But eventually, the alcohol caught up to me, and I found myself in the middle of a hazy game of beer pong while everyone else was eating hot dogs. I didn’t recognize the guy I was playing with — apparently, he was camped out nearby and came over to join us. I missed every shot I took. I knew I was drunker than I meant to be — this was going to cause problems if my girlfriend noticed. Luckily for me, I thought, she was far drunker.

A few of my friends started passing a bowl around and offered me a hit, which I declined. Weed always made me anxious, tired, and nauseous. In high school, a lot of my friends stopped hanging out with me because I didn’t smoke. I had some personal issues with weed, even if I was accepting of it from a general standpoint.

The sun was setting like a dark hand gripping me tighter and tighter, compressing my chest and making it difficult to breathe. I needed a safety net. I couldn’t find my girlfriend anywhere — she had gone off to dance at a rave. I turned to my friend and his girlfriend, asking if they would take a walk with me.

As we walked around the campgrounds, everything came pouring out of me. I was a sobbing mess, explaining to them that I was feeling overwhelmed but didn’t want to show it. I didn’t want to start a fight.

Then, we ran into my girlfriend. She told them she would “take over,” and proceeded to scold me for getting too drunk, for not keeping myself together, and for making it all about me.

“There are other people here, Austin,” she said. “Trying to have a good time.”

I sat in the driver’s seat of the car, while she talked with everyone else, punching myself in the face. I felt I deserved punishment. I was being selfish. I was ruining the fun.

A friend of hers came and talked with me for a while, and I started to feel better. I was meant to share a tent with her and my girlfriend that night, but my girlfriend didn’t want me in there. Instead, I slept in my friend’s tent at his feet.

Shouldering the blame

For the rest of the festival, my drinking was heavily monitored, and though I enjoyed the performances, I never quite moved past that first night.

I couldn’t look back on the experience as a fun thing, and I solely blamed myself for that. I talked to my therapist about how selfish I’d been, and about how I wished I could just be normal. I was sick of being a mess all the time. I was sick of being a failed person.

It was almost a month later, blackout drunk at a bonfire, when I received an apology via text. “I shouldn’t have blamed you so much,” it read. “I should have handled that better. I’m sorry.”

Even reading the messages over the next day, I couldn’t let go of the fault. In my responses to her, I accepted the apology and admitted that I should have been more careful. I’m mad at myself for that.

Here’s what I’ve learned since that day nearly three years ago:

• You are not responsible for your panic attack. There are things you can do to cope, but it’s nearly impossible to control these things. It doesn’t make you wrong or at fault.
• A healthy, caring support system is important. If the person you lean on when things get rough lashes out at you, they are not worth your time.
• Drinking is not a healthy way to manage anxiety and often makes it worse. If you’re going to drink, only do so if you’re in a good headspace.
• Call people out on their bad behavior. If someone berates you for having a panic attack, don’t apologize to them. They are the one in the wrong, and you shouldn’t feel guilty.
• Being anxious doesn’t make you a failure or a “broken person” who needs to be fixed. We don’t view someone with asthma or allergies as broken failures, so why should we feel that way when it comes to our mental health?
• It’s okay to admit that you are unwell. In fact, it’s necessary to get better.

Aftermath

That relationship eventually ended in a messy way — twice. The second, permanent time, I did the same thing I’d always done: I blamed myself. I couldn’t accept that when a relationship fails, blame usually falls on both parties. I was the broken one, I thought. I messed up every step of the way.

It took me well over a year to accept that this wasn’t the case, that other people had made mistakes too. I couldn’t love myself for a long time.

But now, I’m in a healthy relationship. A good one. I didn’t date for two years, and I spent time figuring myself out as a person — that included restarting therapy and getting a prescription for an SNRI — but it was a good thing.

I’m finally starting to remember what happiness feels like. I’m finally looking forward to the future once again.