The first time I had an anxiety attack was at the Warner Brothers Studio Tour when I was fifteen years old. I was so excited to tour the studio, as I had a huge love for film and acting. Yet, my mind started racing the closer we got to the start. What if I throw up?
For context, I have really bad emetophobia, the fear of throwing up, and my brain convinced me that I was going to throw up or pass out just because I had endured a forty-minute car ride. Perchance, I was just a bit carsick, but the second the thought crossed my brain once again: What if I throw up? My anxiety latched on, and I started spiraling. I had no idea what was happening; all I wanted was for it to be over.
Fun, right?
Wrong. I tried to calm my racing thoughts, the waves of nausea, and the dizziness for about ten minutes before I realized: something was very wrong. I felt completely out of control as I collapsed on the couch next to the bathroom. A Warner Brothers employee called their own fire department, which arrived moments later. Yes, they were attractive, but I could barely appreciate this fact! As I lay prone on the orange couch, I literally thought I was going to die. They took my vitals and concluded that whatever was happening to me wasn’t a mysterious illness as I had thought, but rather the big “A-word”: Anxiety.
Convinced this was a fluke accident that prevented me from touring the Warner Brothers studio, I continued with my life.
Everything is fine. I am completely in control.
I was completely wrong. Over the summer, I continued to have random moments where I was triggered and convinced myself I was going to throw up. Cue the panic, tears, and anxiety. Finally, my parents and I decided to find me a therapist because I could barely even go to school without feeling like I was going to collapse in an anxiety-induced panic.
That’s how powerful our minds are. I would be fine one minute, the next I would be locked in a bathroom, clutching my stomach, as I struggled to catch my breath. It was not a pleasant way to live.
My therapist would end up being my saving grace. With her help, I developed coping skills: deep breathing exercises, meditation, limiting screen time, sleeping more, mantras; if she recommended it, I did it. And for years, it worked. I thought I had conquered my anxiety like it was an item on my long to-do list. I convinced myself once again: Everything is fine. I am completely in control.
During my high school experience, however, I started getting anxious not just about vomiting, but about tests, presentations, hanging out with new friends, and even just the thought of college. I thought this would all go away when I started my freshman year. I was quickly proven wrong.
Sparing the most painful details, my anxiety was a monster during my first semester of freshman year in college. My mind was constantly whirling. I couldn’t sleep as I would stay up every night overthinking every single interaction I had. I convinced myself that all of my new friends hated me, and I would dread every lecture in fear of being called on. I tried my coping skills, I went back to therapy, and I tried to live my life. I told myself again: Everything is fine. I am completely in control!
But I was lying to myself. Even though I was having an amazing semester, I was unable to fully enjoy it due to my mental health.
As I cried on the phone with my sister, she recommended I see a psychiatrist. All of this time, I had hesitations about going on anti-anxiety medication because to me, it meant that I was not strong enough to deal with it on my own. I thought that this meant admitting to myself that I was not in control, something I desperately yearned for. Nobody had ever told me this, but it was a preconceived notion that prevented me from seeking this help earlier. I told myself that it was all just in my head and that tomorrow would be a better day. I was scared to admit this, and deep down, a bit ashamed that I was not able to solve this problem on my own. Yet, nothing seemed to help.
Enter my support system: my family, once again encouraging me and supporting me to go on medication. And finally, I listened. I told myself: It’s ok for not everything to be fine. It’s ok to not be in control.
Now, I take medication every day, and I can honestly say my mental health has never been better. I am able to go to class, hang out with my friends, participate in student organizations, audition for shows, try new things, and be spontaneous without worrying that anxiety would sideline me from having fun. I am able to fully enjoy my college experience because I finally understood that I needed help, and I got it.
I can do laundry without getting overwhelmed, I don’t procrastinate my homework as much, and overall, I just feel so happy. Long gone are the days when I sat on the floor of my room, clutching the trash bin. Now my days are filled with laughter as I make memories with my friends. I no longer obsess as much over the need to feel in control. I know not every day will be perfect but it’s already so much better than how it was.
So, if you’re looking for a sign to get help or take the next step on your mental health journey, I will be the first to encourage you. I am not a medical professional, and everyone has different experiences with medication. I happened to just have a very positive experience with it. But I want to leave with hope that things truly do get better. People love you, and they want you to succeed. I am living proof that it is ok to accept the help you need to live a fuller and happier life.