I’ve been thinking a lot about the struggles I’ve had in the past with panic attacks and depression, and while I’ve shared small snippets over the years, it wasn’t always easy to come clean about what I was in the midst of.
Now, a couple of years beyond it, I’m able to reflect back on them with some clarity (something that can feel sorely lacking in the midst of that cycle…)
Writing down my stories to share makes me feel vulnerable, and yet, I also feel driven by the sense that there are so many of us affected by these same struggles. Knowing I was not alone was one of the greatest things in the process and in taking steps in my recovery.
As I work through my stories, I struggle for words. I struggle with the memories of what it feels like to go back to that place. I see a person in paralyzing fear and anguish.
Yet, as I continue searching, and wipe the mud and muck from my view, I see someone who fought through it. Who found a Way to understand what was happening.
I no longer suffer from regular panic attacks.
Oh, I feel them knock on my door.
Whisper in my ear.
There are triggers, and I know them well.
They sit waiting for me to be overly tired or stressed.
But they no longer hold me captive.
And that is where I want this chapter of my story to begin.
Because it is worth celebrating.
But the past can’t be forgotten, because there are many others who have fallen and fear that it’s that last time before they can no longer get up.
Don’t believe it.
Don’t listen to those whispers.
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