Anxiety Attacks

I had my first serious anxiety attack in 2004. I was walking around San Diego Comicon trying to sell copies of the preview for my self-published graphic novel and hopefully get a company to pick it up. I was sitting with a group of bad boy pro writers, established yet revolutionary. It was a dream come true.

Then suddenly, while working my way through the crowds, my chest seized up, I was seriously short of breath, and I began to feel dizzy. I had to bolt for the lobby, hit the water fountain, and find a dark corner to hide in. Everything was crushing in on me, I just wanted to disappear, blink into non-existence.

I didn't want to hustle my comic to jaded fans too socially awkward to approach, too lacking in taste to know what a quality book I had to offer. I didn't want to kiss ass and play the game just to drop another neglected product into the wasteland that was the comic industry.

Who was I? What did I have to say that was worth anyone's time and money? Hell, I truly was just some suburban loser, first time on the West Coast, thirty pounds overweight, wardrobe by K-Mart, awkward haircut and nervous stammer. And I was just a writer in a visual medium.

I had no idea who I was, I just knew who I didn't want to be, that person in the mirror. The loser clutching his chest and breaking down into tears as his dream came true and it destroyed him. I have never successfully "played it cool" in my life.

After that convention the comic deal fell apart, as did I. I quit my job, left my loveless relationship, and moved to NYC. I experienced more in that first year than in my entire life. It was the equivalent of learning how to swim by diving off the Empire State Building into the East River.

I have mostly lived in a heightened panic state since then. Only copious amounts of alcohol could make me turn into a true social drunken master. The rest of my days are spent obsessing about minute details like how exactly I'll word my order at Starbucks, the piercing pain in my back, the ache of my chest and shoulders, debating on going out alone again since I've effectively isolated myself from everyone.

I hate whining but I don't know what to do. Most people say they had no idea I had anxiety issues, didn't notice my shaky hands, ignore my awkward statements. I've gone to doctors, even checked myself into the psych ward, but all they want is to medicate for depression, no matter how I proclaim that the anxiety makes me feel detached, which is the root of all of my depressing thoughts.

I'll keep trying to make myself stronger, and indeed it is getting easier to manage, to function. But then a physical side takes over and I just have to retreat within myself and hope that these words can ease me back into the world once more.