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Diary of an Anxious Mind
My first panic attack was caused by my father.
I would always hesitate to burden those I love with the blame for my anxiety, but if anyone who raised me is at fault, my father is. He abused me physically until I was thirteen and put my foot down, telling him I’d go live with my mother if he put his hands on me again, so instead of being easier on me, he doubled down on the mental abuse.
Growing up, the thing I heard the most from him was that my dreams, goals, desires were not good enough. I was not good enough. I internalized this bullshit idea to the point where my inner critic speaks in his voice, says what he said to me, when I’m at a breaking point. I rationally know that I’m not a bad person, no matter what my mind tells me, but it’s hard to change that inner voice.
I will always remember my first panic attack. I was sitting on my nightstand, a dark blue lacquered piece of furniture that had been handmade by my stepmom’s father, and it creaked under my weight. I couldn’t breathe. My father was screaming at me, but I was lost in a fog, far from my present situation. Every gasp of air felt like a fish sucking in oxygen, like nothing was getting through the right pipes.
“You’re having contractions,” my father told me, a maniacal smile on his face. As though he wanted to care for me as he railed against me. What a strange…
