Panic! in the kitchen

I don’t quite know what happened. It arrived so suddenly, and I wasn’t expecting it.

That’s how it goes, I suppose. That’s why it’s called an attack.

I remember my first real panic attack. I had just started a job at the floral counter of a local grocery chain the summer before junior year of college. My first job. Real job, anyway. I know what you’re thinking: you got your first job at 20 years old? Yes. I know. But I was trying to figure out how to function, how to make money to pay the rent and the bills. And I was very bad at this job.

I was in the shower before my evening shift, and my head felt odd. Light. Heavy. Unbalanced. I couldn’t breathe, and the hot water was drowning me. I sat down and cried. A panic attack.

I used to sit in my car before work, in that hot parking lot, holding back tears from running down my reddening cheeks. I’d clock in, and I’d drag myself back to the floral counter and hope no one needed anything. Sometimes they did. Most times they didn’t. And sometimes I’d get lucky and I’d get to help out the guys in the produce section, restocking tomatoes and reorganizing the pre-made bagged salads. Safe from hard questions and impossible requests I wasn’t trained to handle.

The next phase of panic attacks arrived after I broke up with my first real boyfriend. There’s too much to say here, but suffice it to say: it was extremely toxic, and it left me shattered. I started running, lacing up my old tennis shoes, pulling on slightly too small elastic shorts, and letting those endorphins take over for a little while. At least when it felt like I couldn’t breathe, it was because I was doing something. Anything.

Time went on. I survived college. I found myself. Yada yada.

Enter a stable, committed relationship. Enter the person-my person-who would work to understand me, and lift me up, and ask me good questions. Enter Brandon. He makes me feel safe and good. He makes me feel loved and accepted. We’ve created a safe haven, the two of us.

This past year has truly been a trying time, and I’ve had to work extra overtime to make sure my mental and emotional well-being is okay. And I’ve mostly succeeded, but boy, does anxiety know how to take you by surprise. I’ve been doing all the right things this week: I’ve eaten veggies every day, I’ve worked out consistently, and I’ve been meditating before I go to sleep. But tonight, another panic attack swept me off my feet, and it was a doozy. I could feel the blood rush from my head, out to my limbs. My throat closed up, and I couldn’t swallow. My cheeks flushed. My heart started racing and I couldn’t hear anything except the pounding.

I’m afraid to be home alone sometimes. I’m scared I’ll be eating too quickly, and I’ll start to choke. I’m scared that I won’t have read the label on the food I’ve just cooked up, and I didn’t see one of my allergens labeled there in the ingredients list. I’m scared I’ll be reaching for something at the top of the closet, leaned out from the step stool, and my foot will slip. Intrusive thoughts. They come from my anxiety, I know this. It’s hard not to listen.

But Brandon. He sat me down, handed me a glass of water, and guided me through my breaths.

I’m scared to be alone, but having a partner who listens makes it easier.