It All Started When I Was a Child

"Don't kill anyone, Erica! Calm down!" My peers would tell me when I was around 12 years old. I've always had issues expressing myself in a calm and even-mannered way. You could say I had anger issues. It took very little to set me off and it was like a bomb.

When I was 11 years old, my father left and my parents ended up divorcing soon after. My dad moved to the literal other side of the country and I rarely heard from him and only saw him a few times. My brother moved out there with him a few years later, and it was just me and my mother, with my new step family, in a new state, with no friends or family nearby. Our new home was in the south central part of the state, about 1,400 miles from my East Coast home. You've probably guessed correctly: My anger issues did not improve. Rather, they worsened.

My new school was much smaller than the old one and the people were dramatically different. Whereas it was easy to get lost in the crowd in Virginia, Arkansas had much smaller class sizes, so I stood out like a sore thumb and felt like a complete outcast. Friends came relatively quickly, but the relationships were tenuous at best. These kids had grown up together and that, my dear reader, is a tough group to break in to. I made it through, though, and eventually graduated. I promptly moved about forty miles away for college and never looked back.

While I have some deep-seated negative feelings toward my university, the experience was one I would absolutely never trade. I met some of the best people I know, one of which I married, and grew so much as a person. I matured quickly and was challenged by those friends to become a better version of myself. I am forever grateful to them.

During my college experience, though, I also had my first full-blown, on the ground, sobbing and heaving, panic attack. Thinking back, I'd actually had some smaller ones in the weeks previous but I didn't recognize them for what they were. This one though—there was no mistaking it. I couldn't breathe, my entire body shook, and I sobbed like I had never sobbed before. The culmination of 18 years of anger, sadness, depression and anxiety came flooding out of me, on the steps of the student union, in the dark. Alone. I can't even remember what all finally pushed me to that point. As I sat there, feeling like I was either having a heart attack or dying, I knew something needed to change. Something was. not. right.

So, that is where my therapy journey started. My university had free counseling services for students and I went to see one of them. Her name was, for these purposes, B. B was young (probably in her thirties), soft-spoken and very mellow. She had a calming presence about her and presented herself as someone who wanted nothing more than to hear what was going on and help. I spoke to her about things I didn't tell anyone, things I barely admitted to myself. I honestly can't remember much about that session (it was twelve years ago, after all), but I remember leaving and feeling both overwhelmingly sad, very uncomfortable but also a little relieved. Someone was taking me seriously. I went back to B a few more times but eventually, the panic and anxiety symptoms seemed to subside and so, like most people do, I thought I was fine and quit going.

I was wrong.

Symptoms flared back up. Not immediately, but over time. The pressure built and I took it out on those around me. The valve had to be released at some point. Another semester, a different school year. I tried to go see B again, but she booked up quickly. She was such a good counselor. I jumped around to a couple others, but they just weren't as good and those were one-visit experiences. I finally graduated and decided to go for my Master's after not being able to get a job. I decided I wanted to get a Master's degree in counseling because I wanted to use my trauma to help those around me.

In this time, I had met and married my wife. She was and is a constant support and companion. However, just like anything else, the pressure got to be too much for our marriage and she urged me to go back to counseling. I hated the idea, I detested the search for a new therapist. I did finally find one, a man this time. We'll call him T. T was older than me, around my mom's age. He smoked and smelled like smoke often. He was also a bitter, angry person as well and we had had similar childhood experiences, which he projected onto me during our sessions. After about a month, he told me he was retiring and I would be seeing a woman who was an intern. That meant two things: she was less experienced but she was also free. Her name was V, and she was also older than me, had children and had been married for longer than I had. She seemed laid back and I thought, "Finally, someone I can really talk to. Let the healing begin!" and for the most part, I was right. I made some headway, but not in the areas that I needed. With both T and V, I would bring my wife with me because I valued her input, as she saw sides of my issues that I don't. It affected her in ways it didn't affect me. However, every time I brought her, V would spend the session discussing my codependency on her. Long story short, I saw V for the semester she was at the clinic and then stopped going to therapy altogether.

I need to go back. My symptoms are becoming worse again. I'm having more frequent panic attacks and my anxiety is high more often than not. I've finally received official diagnoses and having a name for it has certainly helped. In twelve years, though, I've seen five or six different therapists/counselors and have yet to find the right long-term help. I've wanted to give up so many times, but the fight continues. I have too much to live for and that is something I have to remind myself of daily.