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Dad pulled up at the front of the drop-off bay. He turned to look at me, expectant. I’m sure he said something like, ‘Good luck! Have fun!’, but it was little use to me. All I could think about was how I might puke at any second. Even something as trivial as moving my hand from my lap to the door handle would make losing my stomach’s meagre contents all the more likely. I didn’t want to move, anyway. Every one of my muscles was tense. Releasing myself from them was near impossible.
This was far from my first panic attack. In spite of that, I’d been refusing to try anxiety medication for a while. Sure, I’d panic, but it had never stopped me from attending an event, or going to school, or doing an oral presentation in front of the class. I was tough. I could push through. I didn’t need a pill to make me feel better. My panic attacks didn’t call for medication, did they?
I looked up at the parking sign from the passenger seat of the car:
Loading Zone
Passengers
2 Mins Max.
‘You’ll be fine once you get in there,’ Dad said in his familiar, gently encouraging tone.
I nodded infinitesimally. He was right. My nerves always disappeared as soon as I got to the event. But I made no effort to move from the passenger seat of our car. I was too anxious. I was unable to even pry my mouth open, let alone tell Dad why I couldn’t get out. I was worrying about everything I could, my body was overflowing with adrenaline, and all I could do was sit.
My hands and feet began to feel numb and tingly, as if they were being pricked by tiny needles. I was scared they would turn purple. This felt worse than any of my other panic attacks. It was worse. This had never happened before. I knew I wasn’t dying: my body was just withdrawing blood to protect me from a non-existent threat. But still, the sensation was near unbearable. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t do anything to calm myself down. I could only sit and wait for it to be over.
I have no idea if I sat there, in that passenger loading zone, for 5 minutes or 45, but eventually my panic waned. I could finally stretch my hands and curl my toes. I could stand up, if I wanted to. The adrenaline was still there, of course. As were the nerves. They were just returning to a manageable level.
After regaining my mouth, I looked down at the glovebox.
“Dad? I think I want to go on anxiety medication.”
I undid my seatbelt and got out of the car.
Written by Ollie Lanagan
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