My breath came in small puffs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t BREATHE. I wanted to scream in frustration, but because my lungs simply couldn’t take in anymore air, that was not an option. There was no way out. It was just me and this wave of panic that threatened to pull me under a blanket under a cloak. All I could hear was my heartbeat like a resounding angry echo, slapping me and crushing me under its sheer terror that it induced. Try as I might, every breath was a fight—like I was choking but trying to breathe at the same time. It was like something had crushed my lungs–crushed any thoughts I could have fathomed at that moment.
What my panic attack during the winter felt like to me.