In Control

1 | I was ten years old...

A/N: All names (except for my own) have been changed for identity protection.

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I thought I was pretty normal as a kid. Fun loving, independent, athletic, feisty. I had an abundance of friends, I was pretty smart, and overall, I was happy. So, in fifth grade when I experienced my first panic attack, I didn't know that it would change me from that day forward.

In elementary school, the last thing you expect to experience is something as inconsolable as a panic attack. As kids, you're not worried about the complexity of your mind. The most nerve-wracking thing you had to deal with is long division and multiplication. Kids aren't supposed to worry about serious matters. They're supposed to worry about what they're going to play during recess (for me it was countless rounds of four-square and chasing the boys who would pull my hair).

I was ten years old when I physically and emotionally felt the intensity of an anxiety. But back then, I didn't know that was what it was.

There was no trigger. It just came out of nowhere.

It was the middle of the school year and I was working on a math worksheet. I gripped my pencil tightly, feeling a slight constriction in my chest. I took a deep breath or at least I tried to, but I couldn't feel the satisfaction oxygen normally brought. My eyes closed shut as I tried to focus on breathing but nothing worked. When I opened them, I fixated on the pencil as is shook in my trembling hand. It was nearing ninety degrees in Texas, so there should have been no reason for me to be shaking as badly as I was.

It was as I was attempting to debunk each foreign symptom when my vision began to blur. The salty water filled to the brim of my eyes, making it obvious to me that something was not right.

I'm not sad, I shouldn't be crying, I thought to myself.

I could feel my classmate's eyes burning holes in me and hear the whispers of judgment. Unsure how to handle the situation, I got up from my desk and went to my teacher Ms. Goldfield. When I got to her desk, I tried speaking but all that came out was incoherent sobs.

"What?" she asked, patiently waiting for me to calm myself down long enough to tell her what's wrong which was proving harder as each second passed.

"Can I c-call my m-mom?" I finally asked, tears already streaming down my cheeks.

"Are you okay, Rebecca?"

I could tell by her expression that she was surprised I was crying. It's not every day when you see one of your students burst into tears and lose all capability to function normally, so I guess she had the right to be as surprised as she was.

I nodded, trying my hardest to push down the sobs and not make a scene, but that plan flew out the window the minute the first tear fell.

I am okay, I thought. Why wouldn't I be?

Ms. Goldfield handed me the bulky cell phone and I stepped outside of the portable classroom and into the blistering heat where I sat on the metal steps. Struggling to dial my mom's phone number, I steadied my shaking hands long enough to press each button.

Waiting through the dial tone was tortuous. People aren't kidding when time seems to go by ten times slower when you're anxious. A sense of relief filled my veins when I finally heard her voice come through the earpiece.

"Hello?" Mom answered.

Large tears fell from my eyes, one after another and my sobs became louder.

"Rebecca?" she called, recognizing the sound of my voice.

"Mommy," I croaked, completely overwhelmed by the massive amount of emotions flowing through me.