Perpetually Broken, Perpetually Healing

First, you have to acknowledge the lies.

Panic is good at lying to you. It’s a tricky bitch. It will wait till your defenses are already down– you are already tired from long nights of insomnia, exhausted from trying to parse through the millions of thoughts that won’t stop racing through your head. Then, Panic will slip under your covers like the tenderest bedfellow. It will wrap its arms around your stomach and chest and hold you close and validate everything bad you’re feeling. Then, it will begin whispering lies to you.

I will never go away.

You look around, shake your head and readjust yourself body, ignoring the voice because you know everything must end and you’re sure this will too.

But Panic knows your weak spots. It knows how to make a bad thing worse.

I will never go away. And no one is ever going to put up with that.

Panic feels your stomach clench under its hands and smiles.

Yeah, you know it’s true. You’re so fucking annoying when you’re like this. You don’t even like yourself. Why would anyone put up with you?


Normally, when I storm and rage through an anxiety attack, it’s a solo adventure.

It hits me in cars or on runs. Sometimes in the quiet of my room. I’ve normally sensed an attack coming from miles away, and when the time comes, there’s nothing to do but wait for it to pass.

This time, however, was different. I thought I was fine. I thought I had gotten it out of my system a few days ago. I had a crying jag on the bathroom floor while my boyfriend was asleep, wiped my eyes, nodded my head and shook out my shoulders. Yeah, okay. I’m good now.

This night, though, I should’ve seen it coming. The inability to sleep. The desire to drink (nothing crazy, but when I go from drinking once a week to having a drink a day with dinner, I can tell something is up). The fatigue. It hadn’t really gone away. I was moody and tired and picking unnecessary fights, but I was so caught up in my own head that Panic blindsided me, that bitch.

Here’s the thing I don’t talk a lot about: While I have acknowledged my own struggles with anxiety, the shame hasn’t fully gone away. Even years later, I still feel incredibly judgmental of myself about my anxiety sometimes. Poor spoiled you, my brain snarls at me, What gives you the right to cry about anything? Why are you being such a whiny bitch? Who would ever put up with this? You’re pathetic.

So, I sit there, sniveling and helpless and hating myself. I sit there until it passes. But normally I sit there alone so that I can wallow in my own self-loathing without witnesses. When Panic rips you down the back and makes you crumple to your lowest self, you’re not looking for spectators.

This night, however, it wasn’t an option. My boyfriend and I got into bed (after above-written moodiness), and within minutes I knew what was happening. ‘Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.’ I thought. ‘I have to get out. I have to go.’ I turned over my shoulder, hoping that somehow Chase had magically fallen asleep in a few minutes. He had not.

I will never go away.

I stalled. I got water and tried to get it out of my system in the kitchen without raising suspicions (how long can I spend in a kitchen at 11PM and not be binge eating cookies?!). I tried to think of some way I could justify getting my car and driving away that wouldn’t read as massively shady (note: I did not find this justification. Please let me know if you figure one out). Nothing was working.

I will never go away. And no one is ever going to put up with that.

Finally, I had no choice but to get back into bed. My boyfriend took one look at me and asked every upset-person’s Kryptonite: “Are you okay?”

I covered my face, like maybe I could hide from Panic itself (note: you can’t), and said, “I’m just having really bad anxiety right now,” and as soon as I named the Monster in the room, it was over.

And… it wasn’t great. It was embarrassing. I kept apologizing. It’s one thing to hear my own judgments rage at me internally when I’m having an attack, it’s another to know that someone has to sit there, helpless while you sort of just have a meltdown for no other reason then, “my brain chemistry likes to fuck with me sometimes.”

You’re so fucking annoying when you’re like this. You don’t even like yourself. 

To his credit, Chase handled it like a champ. He rubbed my back. He said not to be embarrassed and that I didn’t have to keep apologizing. He didn’t try and fix it. He just let it happen.

And, like all things, it eventually ended. The knots in my spine unstitched and my shoulders sagged. I came back to myself. The fog cleared and it was like I stopped seeing white and could breathe again.

But the shame didn’t go away.

Why would anyone put up with you?


Like I said, I’ve been dealing with Panic for a large portion of my life. I’m not scared of naming. I can identify the signs. I know I will live through an attack.

I guess I’m starting to see where the work begins now. I won’t always be alone when I have an attack. I can’t always get in my car and try and drive away from the problem. Sometimes, Panic will show up and I won’t be able to throw myself down the dark well where no one can see me.

The thing is, shame is a choiceGuilt is a choice. While the initial feelings can’t be controlled, whether or not we wallow in those emotions is inherently up to us.

We can listen to Panic’s lies that we are unlovable and unworthy. We can see our struggles as all the ways that we are “broken” and hide those flaws, ashamed that we are not as “strong” or “complete” as we think we need to be.

Or, we can realize that broken and healing are two sides of the same coin. They are different perspectives on the same state of being, really. What matters is which side we want to focus on. We can focus on the frustration that we are perpetually broken, or see the grace that comes with knowing we are perpetually healing, stronger than we were before.


After you acknowledge the lies, you have to beat Panic at its own game.

When it slips next to you, wrap its arms around your chest and neck, take a breath. Remind yourself that you can’t make it go away, but you can reframe the way you see its presence in your life.

And when it whispers, gently, into your ear, I will never go away.

Turn around, look it right in the eye, and say, “I know. And I don’t really care. I’m stronger than you, anyway.”

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