Identity
I was seven when I had my first panic attack. I remember it vividly; I was standing in mass, and we just finished saying the Our Father. I let go of a boy named Carter’s hand and felt extremely light-headed. I asked to use the restroom, and I walked to the back, closed the bathroom door, and remember breathing heavily, wondering what that sensation was. From that moment on, I coined myself as an “anxious person.” I began having regular panic attacks at the age of 20. For the last five years, I’ve spent most of my energy and time focusing on a loaded combination of how to prevent these attacks — being terrified for the next one, shaming myself for acquiring a Xanax prescription, shaming myself when utilizing said prescription, trying supplements, meditations, therapy modalities, and the list goes on. You name it, I have tried it. The minor exception being eating mushrooms in a forest with a shaman. I just figured I’d have to live with this. I figured it’d be something that would stay