When panic first struck me, I knew for sure: that's it, I'm going to die now. It was the middle of summer, a balmy evening, I was 16 and had just come home from the swimming pool. I sat down with my parents on the terrace while my two brothers romped around on the lawn. And I remember exactly how I suddenly thought: «Huh? What's going on? I can't breathe! Oh my God, I really can't breathe!»
I hyperventilated and started shaking, and at the same time I broke out in a sweat. My parents and brothers also immediately panicked and called the emergency services. Because my mother was screaming loudly for help, a neighbour came running. She managed to calm me down by looking at me and saying, «Look, you're still standing upright. You're breathing very quickly, but you're breathing. Now let's do this together, very deeply and calmly.»
Eventually, that worked. However, my parents insisted that the paramedics take me to the hospital for a check-up. The diagnosis was that physically, everything was fine.
Ever shorter intervals between panic attacks
A few weeks later, the next panic attack came, again out of the blue. The intervals between attacks grew shorter and shorter. I had no idea what triggered them, and although several doctors told me that they were not dangerous, I was convinced time and again that this time I would really die.
It was nothing short of hell. Above all, I didn't know when it would start again, and I didn't want anyone to see me like that. So I stayed at home more and more often. I told a friend everything, but asked her to keep it to herself. Others wondered why I was withdrawing so much, but no one really asked me what was wrong.
I structured everything because I wanted to feel like I had at least some part of my life under control.
At some point, we all accepted the new reality. My father meditates a lot, and he thought it would do me good too. I tried it – for his sake – because he thought my anxiety was caused by too much stress at school and because I spend too much time on social media. But it's not for me. My parents accepted that too and didn't push me into anything. When I said, «I'm fine,» that was enough for them.
I worked hard, did a lot for school, talked on the phone with my friends a lot. And I structured everything as much as possible because I wanted to feel like I had at least some part of my life under control, even if I couldn't control my anxiety.
Professional assistance
It went on like this throughout the autumn and winter. Then came the point when my parents decided that things couldn't go on like this. The outdoor swimming pools had reopened, and during the warmer months, that's where I spend most of my time outside of school. But I didn't want to go anymore.
It was like an alarm bell. My parents insisted that I get professional help. Because there was no prospect of a quick therapy place that would be paid for by the health insurance company, we found a psychotherapist who accepted private patients. I got an appointment after five weeks.
I had no idea how it would work and thought I would go there and be free of these attacks after one session – at least that was my great hope. But it took almost a whole year before I experienced my first completely panic-free week.
During that time, I thought a lot about my values and my idea of a good life. I learned that I was far too perfectionist and had far too high expectations when it came to school, friendships and appearance.
My tendency to control things can also help me when I panic.
The therapy showed me that being close to family and friends is more important than perfection. And that my tendency to control things can also help me when I panic. I can influence my breathing and control it well using certain techniques. This in turn helps me when I notice that anxiety is creeping up on me. Fortunately, this is happening less and less often.
I am currently doing a voluntary social year in Copenhagen. I am out and about a lot with new friends and old friends who come to visit. My plan for spring: head to Islands Brygge as soon as the temperatures allow – that's Copenhagen's harbour baths.
*Name changed by the editors
