For me, that never happened.
The last panic attack in September was it for me.
I knew I couldn’t keep living this way. I had to do something.
That afternoon, I walked into my chiropractor’s appointment feeling fine.
As I sat in a black chair placed in the corner of the room waiting for the doctor, intense fear came over me.
It happened that quickly.
I opened a magazine to try to distract myself.
The more I fought the fear & racing thoughts, the worse it got.
Taking a deep breath became a struggle.
My body was shaking.
My heart was pounding.
All the emotions I felt when PPA/PPOCD was at its worst came flooding back to me.
I was terrified.
I can never have any more kids.
I can never put myself through this again.
The next day, I found an amazing therapist. And I called my doctor to discuss getting on meds.
I couldn’t do this on my own anymore.
As I stood in my bathroom, my hands were shaking the first time I held that bottle. I swallowed the tiny blue pill with a glass of water right before bed.
I couldn’t decide if I was weak for taking these or strong for finally getting help.
It’s been 9 months since I have had a major panic attack.
9 months since I have been on a medication & in therapy.
Although I am still fighting through this, the intrusive thoughts don’t happen nearly as often.
And when they do, they don’t seem to have the same power over me as they used to have.
I have come a long way & I won’t ever stop fighting.
These last 9 months I have learned so much.
I have learned that it really is OK to ask for help.
Asking for help has been the best thing I have done for myself, my daughter & my family.
By speaking out & asking for help, I have learned that there are so many others who have gone through similar experiences.
By speaking out, I am helping others. Even if the only thing I can do is listen or share my experience.
I learned that I wasn’t weak for reaching out for help & speaking up. I was strong.