My Therapist Says
My Therapist Says ‘Yes, And’
I’m learning to reject the overpowering desire to have the one answer to my anxiety.
In early 2017, I experienced my first panic attack. I was in a work meeting with my manager when I began to feel hot and claustrophobic, sure I was going to throw up. I kept looking to the door, willing it to open and for an invisible force to propel me out of the room to safety. Eventually, I excused myself, explaining that I didn’t feel well.
On the subway ride home, as in the meeting room, I felt trapped; each time the doors slid shut, a wave of dread washed over me. After a few stops, I summoned the courage to exit the train, and, in tears, started wandering downtown Boston in the vague direction of my apartment, which was miles away. I meandered to a park, where I sat for about 45 minutes before my roommate who worked nearby came to get me. I spent the rest of the day in her office, composing myself, before she chaperoned me home.
When I began seeing my current therapist, I was trapped in a cycle of panicking and then worrying about the next time I would panic (a hallmark of anxiety), and desperate to uncover why this was happening to me. What was causing my anxiousness? What was the reason, the culprit? I’d offer hypotheses: Maybe a specific…
