Kelly K.
Photography by Ally Szabo
If you’re reading this, it’s okay to not have it all figured out.
I’ve had anxiety for as long as I can remember. It took me until I was ten years old to even walk down the stairs one foot at a time. But I never viewed it as something bad. It was just… part of me? I had grown so accustomed to the little voice in my head warning me that I was constantly in danger that I never really viewed it as an issue. It was not until my senior year of college that this voice began to morph into something much, much larger.
I had my first panic attack in May of 2023. It was terrifying. I have always appreciated control, but this was the complete and utter opposite. It was as if my brain had shut off completely and all that I could think or feel was this lack of control. I remember throwing up for hours and physically shaking so badly. I truly thought I was dying. I had never experienced anything like this before, and it seemed like it would never end. I continued to have panic attacks for the rest of the summer, going through periods where I was so anxious that the thought of eating seemed next to impossible. With each panic attack, my body would do a “factory reset” where I was unable to eat or keep anything down for a week. I lost almost twenty pounds that summer, but not in a healthy manner. It was as if the attack was so traumatizing to my body that it took several days to resume “business as usual.”
Senior year started and actually went really well. I noticed that I stopped having panic attacks and felt generally positive about things. It wasn’t until I was in the Nashville airport, flying back from fall break, that my next panic attack crept up on me. Shaking in the airport bathroom is an experience that will always sit with me. I threw up for hours, feeling so trapped. I was physically stuck in another state away from my main support, my mom. This thought only sent me deeper into the panic attack. I remember calling my mom and explaining that it was finally time to seek help. My mom and I had never really talked about anxiety before, so this was a big step. We have always been close, but my need for control included a need to control myself mentally, too. Why would I talk about anxiety with my mom when I assumed I was simply strong enough to handle it myself?
I started going to therapy in October and am so grateful to have found a therapist who clicks with me (shoutout Natalie). It felt so good to talk about how I was feeling. I realized that other than one or two close friends at home, I am actually awful at opening up about how I’m feeling. The control freak in me wants to keep it all inside. It begs me to simply handle it myself because I’m strong. I can do this. Right?
Therapy gave me an outlet to let out years of built-up trauma and feelings. My therapist recommended I meet with a psychiatrist, and the nurse in me immediately said, yes, please. I know that antidepressants often have a stigma against them, but I was more than willing to do whatever it would take to stop feeling so awful 24/7.
My psychiatrist started me on Prozac and, to put it simply, it was horrible. I was so anxious about starting the medication that I threw up for days and stopped eating entirely. I found it ironic how starting a medication that was supposed to help actually exacerbated my problems. This was around Thanksgiving, so I ended up leaving the semester early to move back home. This was a hard decision to make, as I felt so weak and vulnerable about “quitting” or “tapping out early.” While it may not seem like it, making this decision was a very big deal to me. I continued to struggle at home, but over time the nausea went away, and I was able to eat. The anxiety, however, never changed. I wanted so badly for the medication to work and felt like I was putting all my faith into this little pill. I felt so powerless, so hopeless. It was around this time that I noticed anxiety’s evil sister, depression, creeping in. I remember seeing adults in public and thinking to myself, How do they do it? How did they make it this far in life, despite whatever trauma or hardships they’ve gone through? The thought of feeling this horrible for many years to come made me feel as if I was trapped. It got to the point where I thought I may be better off dead. I have only ever admitted this to three of my closest friends, so writing this out is hard.
I came back to finish off the semester before Christmas break, but immediately had another panic attack upon arrival and left early again. I was so disappointed in myself. I had a bad habit of looking around at everyone on campus and thinking, How do they do it? Why are they fine and I’m not? I worried about what people would think of me for leaving early. Was I weak? Was I being dramatic? I felt so alone over break like there was no one to talk to. It felt as if no one cared, and feeling like that for long enough convinces your brain that it is true. I fell into the mindset of me against the world, only spiraling deeper into my depression.
I came back in the second semester semi-optimistic that things could change. But I was still really struggling. We had a snow day the first week of that semester. I hate snow days because they allow me to sit in my head all day. I appreciate routines and schedules because it gives me a sense of control and keeps me busy. For a moment, I can forget about how awful I feel. That night, I was sitting on my couch when I suddenly felt the physical symptoms of a panic attack manifesting. I ran to my car where I could be alone and entered probably the worst panic I have ever had. My panic attacks manifest in a very physical manner. From throwing up to physically shaking to my entire body feeling like pins and needles, I again felt so out of control. I called my mom, my main support, and remembered begging her to let me come home. I created this idea in my head that school was “bad” and home was “good.” At home, I was in my own space and had my main support systems. But at school, I had no one besides my therapist and one or two close friends that I truly felt comfortable talking about my feelings with. It felt like no one cared, and I accepted that I was on my own… It was a shitty feeling.
My one roommate has provided me with nothing but love and support throughout this journey. She fosters such an inclusive and welcoming environment that makes me feel comfortable expressing how I really feel no matter how messy. So, I texted my roommate and asked her to come out to my car. Both she and my mom thought it would be best to go to the emergency room. For whatever reason, I felt so embarrassed taking that step. I think going to the ER made everything seem so much more real and serious, while I had been trying to bottle everything up and pretend it was okay. I ended up going to the ER and looking back I am so glad I did. But in the following days, I felt so… weird. One night I was hyperventilating in an ER bed and then I was suddenly sitting in a classroom learning about health promotion. I didn’t know how to simply jump back into life when I had just experienced what felt like the end of the world.
I continued to have panic attacks after that event. I have gone to the ER at times when it gets to the point where I am convinced I am dying. I remember my therapist telling me “You have a panic disorder” and thinking no way, I just have anxiety – panic disorder sounds way too serious! Nope, she was right. Ativan and other medications quickly became frequent parts of my routine. When people would ask what I was panicking about, I truly did not have an answer other than the fear of when my next panic attack would strike. My deep-rooted fear of having a panic attack would essentially send me into a panic attack. For example, I could be sitting in class and think damn, wouldn’t it suck if I had a panic attack right now? Then bam, it happens. This was extremely frustrating to accept because I couldn’t pinpoint a trigger or event that was causing such a buildup of anxiety. It was all so unknown. I could be sitting peacefully on my couch and a panic attack could randomly start. This was and still is terrifying to me, as I never know when one will occur. And I was so angry. I do not know at who… I guess the world? I was so angry that I had panic disorder because… it sucks! To be honest, I still have this anger.
Fast forward to now, I have just gotten my results back from GeneSight, which uses your DNA to find out which antidepressants are the right fit for you. My psychiatrist recommended this test because after how horribly the Prozac went, the thought of testing out medications until I found the right fit seemed unbearable. I found that nearly every single medication is in the “bad” zone, except for three. This means most medications will not react well with my body or will not be effective. I also learned that I have a genetic mutation called MTHFR that affects my body’s ability to process folate, which is then used to release neurotransmitters like serotonin, dopamine, and all that good stuff. Turns out, my body doesn’t know how to do that, so I physically cannot release all the good hormones that the antidepressant is supposed to be working with. People with this mutation have a severely increased risk of depression and anxiety. This was scary but also relieving to learn. The nurse in me loved that there was finally a possible explanation as to why no medications were working. I have been working with my psychiatrist on switching my medication to Pristiq, and for the first time in a while, I feel somewhat hopeful thanks to my GeneSight test.
The truth of the matter is that I still am really struggling. Things aren’t always good. Most of the time, it feels like there is no end in sight and that things will truly never get better. I still have to do things like take medication before bed so that I don’t wake up in a complete panic attack. I still struggle to get out of bed some days. But that’s okay. I was so nervous to write a letter for IYRT because it felt like everyone had this amazing success story. And here I am, still messy and sticky in many places mentally. I was talking about this with a friend when she said, Well don’t you think there’s a message in that? That it doesn’t have to be a definite start and end? If you are reading this, I am begging you to be there to support your friends if they are going through something similar. Just a simple, “How are you?” is all it takes. Let them know that you are there to listen and support them, no matter how messy it may be. And if you are feeling this way, I hope that you can find your support system and accept that it’s okay to not have it all figured out. I have found yoga to be a phenomenal outlet for my anxiety and depression. Even if it’s just for an hour, it allows me to leave the burning garbage pile of thoughts in my head and simply “be.” I’m not setting goals like “never have a panic attack again” or “never think about dying again”. Instead, I have to start small, take baby steps, and accept that that’s okay.
I have also worked on normalizing conversations about mental health in daily conversation. The stigma against mental health is still very present in our modern world. I feel like a lot of people look at mental illness as something silly and small. I have found with two of my closest friends that by breaking down that wall, no matter how scary it may feel, a huge weight is lifted from your shoulders. As of recently, I am even toying with the idea of being grateful for my mental struggles. It sounds backward, but I am grateful for the complexity of being able to think and feel so deeply. I guess you could call it a blessing in disguise in a way. So, please, if you are reading this, you are not alone, and you will figure it out. It may take weeks, years, or even a lifetime, but there is beauty in the journey, and I think that’s kind of beautiful.
Kelly K., Villanova University
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