panic attacked at the disco

I hate the resurgence of my panic attacks for a lot of reasons but especially because it serves as a grave reminder: I am going to die one day. There is nothing I can do about it. Death, like life, will arrive, unexpectedly. Less miraculous, more solemn than its counterpart, death promises a propulsion towards clarity. It is sobering. I can’t write my way out of it, and I don’t intend on avoiding it. I don’t fear the reality of death itself as much as I fear a violent death, which is all I can think about when my body betrays me. In moments where anxiety is the weapon fashioned against me, I can’t tell the difference between life and death. The gray area enlarges. My faith rendered useless, as the tightening of my chest demands complete focus.

I can’t pray it away, and it’s frustrating. No matter how much I endeavor to rid myself of the plague that is chronic anxiety, it chooses to linger in my heart, my soul, my mind, until rapid hot flashes blur my vision into a whirlwind of panic, heightened by sweaty palms, an accelerated heart rate, and a debilitating realization that yes I, too, will die one day.

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Panic attacks are peculiar and the nature of their absurdity never ceases to amaze me. What do you mean that my body is simulating a heart attack but I’m actually fine? It is preposterous. It is a lesson on surrender and I am a struggling student. I can’t ride the wave of anxiousness, when resistance is my first inclination. I’ll never minimize the fact that my body feels under attack even without an active threat in sight.

And yes, I don’t experience panic attacks often enough to shrug them off as a random Tuesday. However, even if the frequency increased, I can’t imagine I’d feel anything other than despair and disconnection.

I’m still waiting for the day where anxiety paints a pretty picture, where social media narratives and memes align with real life experiences, where anxiety disorders are simply this cunty/cutesy thing to navigate instead of a massive inconvenience.

I’ve lost friends and lovers in pursuit of a certainty that will never come. The onus wasn’t on them, as the blame mostly lies on the culture. Seasons of emotional dysregulation are unattractive or overwhelming to the average Joe. Naturally I’m human and don’t want to hurt myself by internalizing any harmful notions about myself. But it’s important to look beyond the smokes and mirrors — the messaging that suggests everyone is yearning for community and repair while actively navigating conflicts with grace. Everyone isn’t capable of accepting the less desirable parts of another person, but the least I can do is accept myself.

I might not have a solution to the problem. I’m not sure I ever will. Right now, anxiety still plays a role in my life, so I’m grateful for the years of professional help that ground(ed) me. It’s okay to reach for a life raft when you’re drowning. Sometimes I’m fine. Other times, I’m completely panicked. Maybe that won’t be the case one day. Radical acceptance reminds me to focus on the things that I can control, instead of constantly worrying about performing or presenting as palatable and the life of the party. Until the calm returns, as it inevitably does, I’ll keep prioritizing coping strategies and holding space for the anxious parts of myself. They deserve tenderness too.