By Anna Lingard, Speakers Coordinator
Something I’ve always prided myself on—though I’m almost certain my mother takes credit for it—is being an “adventurous eater.” I can confidently say that I’ll eat anything put in front of me, with one exception: Spaghetti. The widely regarded comfort food for many is, for me, a reminder of the first time I had a panic attack—An experience I’m not too keen on reliving!
In the summer of 2012, I went to overnight camp for the first time. After a brief goodbye to my parents, my new friends and I headed to the dining hall for our first meal. Anyone want to guess what we had for dinner?
After devouring a plate of spaghetti, I headed back to the cabin for lights out. As I settled into the top bunk, a strange and unfamiliar feeling took over my body. Sweat trenched my skin, my vision started to blur, and my heart raced so wildly I thought it might burst from my chest. Somehow, my seven-year-old brain convinced me that because I was away from my mom, dad, and sister, something terrible was going to happen to them. In a panicked frenzy, I replayed the sound of my mom's laugh in my head just in case I’d never hear it again. You know, normal things a child thinks about.
Overcome by anxiety, I somehow managed to projectile vomit spaghetti all over the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cabin. I’ll spare you the gory details while taking a moment to sincerely apologize to whoever had to clean up that mess. I think about you quite often.
As I stumbled to the medical center, I was more confused than anything. I asked my counselor what she thought was going on, and she nervously replied, “I have no idea… maybe the flu?” I spent every night that week being escorted back to the medical center because at bedtime, without fail, the same thing would happen. I would lie down, convinced that I would never see my family again, that something tragic would happen while I was away, and it was all my fault. Each time, I’d throw up whatever I’d eaten that day—truly a fun cycle!
The doctors chalked it up to a bad stomach bug, and I clung to that diagnosis for years. But even as all of this was happening, I knew deep down it wasn’t a physical issue. During the day, I participated in camp activities—sailing, waterskiing, arts and crafts—without any issues. But as soon as I had a quiet moment, as soon as there was nothing to distract me, I became paralyzed by the thoughts in my head.
When my parents picked me up at the end of the week, I settled into the reality that maybe it was just the flu. The idea that something might be wrong with my brain was incomprehensible to me as a 7-year-old, but when I started high school, the cycle began again. At that point, I had the knowledge of what anxiety was and eventually got the help I so desperately needed.
For the first six months of grade 9, I had a solid morning routine: wake up ungodly early because my brain didn’t have an “off” switch and spend an hour or two trying to stop myself from vomiting. Every morning, without fail, I would throw up and then go on with my day. Call me an optimist, but that’s impressive commitment.
During those six months, I struggled to eat, sleep, or go to school. Everything I once found joy in became impossible to participate in. I became a slave to the thoughts in my head, never straying too far from somewhere with a bathroom just in case something stressed me out and caused a panic attack. I stopped talking to my friends and family because I was so embarrassed at the shell of a human I had become. It felt like I was in a boxing ring, fighting against my own mind as anxiety threw relentless punches, each one adding another worry to the pile. Eventually, I stopped trying to eat altogether because I knew that no matter what, an overwhelming fear would rise, and I would end up throwing it up anyway. My body became so weak that my BMI dropped dangerously low, I was hospitalized and fed through a feeding tube.
As teens, we’re told that school is “stressful,” but for me, it was hard to differentiate between normal amounts of stress and the debilitating anxiety that controlled my life. To this day, I struggle with the idea that my mind isn’t operating like everyone else’s. I want to fit in, and I think, like most people, I didn’t want to believe there was something “wrong” with me.
Years later, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Panic Disorder, and while it’s hard, it’s also a relief to finally have the language to understand what was happening to me all those years ago.
Looking back its difficult to believe how far I’ve come since those early days of confusion and fear. I still have the occasional panic attack but with the help of medication and a lot of work, I have found a “toolkit” of things that help me cope with my anxiety on a day-to-day basis. I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, I struggle a lot sometimes and constantly have to beat out the plethora of unhelpful thoughts that pass through my brain every day. I wrote this piece to remind myself that asking for help is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength. To anyone struggling right now remember: it’s okay to not be okay. You are not alone. And please for the love of God do NOT feed me spaghetti!
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