Breathe With Me

It’s almost one in the morning, and I am sure that I’m dying.

I can feel it in my stomach: that twisting, shrinking, grasping feeling that means that something is wrong, something is very, very wrong. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think of something -- anything -- that will make me feel better. 

Techniques, what are those techniques… what would my therapist say? Try breathing, right? I take in a breath, hold it, let it out… but my heart is still racing, and my stomach is still shrinking, and something is still very, very, wrong.

My body feels like it's made of lead, but I force myself to move, rolling over in bed and groping around on the nightstand for my phone. Grabbing it, I have to squint as blue light starts spilling out of the screen. I scroll through my email, breaths coming faster and faster as my eyes skim the subject lines. Where is it?

Finally, I spot the email I’m looking for: “Panic Attack Tips :)” from my therapist. Number one: “Breathe.” I try inhaling and exhaling again, and again, and again… but then the air catches in my throat, and it’s not working, and I’m still sure that I’m dying.

Focus. I can make it stop. Can’t I?

I skim down the rest of the list, my eyes bouncing off words and phrases. The idea that I can’t, I just can’t, crescendos in my head. My breaths are coming faster and faster, my heartbeat speeding up, my thoughts in a downward spiral.

Something is very, very, wrong.

My eyes catch on the last item on the list: “Talk to a friend.”

I absolutely cannot do that. I can’t, I just can’t.

I curl back up into my blankets, almost on the verge of tears. I can’t think, I can’t slow my heartbeat, I can’t even breathe. I just lie there, eyes squinted shut, wishing with all of my being that it would just stop, that the anxiety and the panic and the pain would just go away.

I force myself to turn the phone on again. Screw it. It can’t get any worse than this.

I know it’s one in the morning, but Daniel is always up this late. As I hit “call,” though, there’s still a part of me that’s hoping he’ll have gone to sleep early, or that he won’t be there for some reason. The phone rings, and it takes every ounce of control I have to not hit “hang up.” It’ll be okay, I try telling myself. Daniel’s helped me with panic attacks once or twice before (he is my best friend, after all), and I have to admit: I need this.

I need help.

He picks up on the fourth ring: “Skye?”

“Daniel?” I say. My voice is timid. Too quiet.

“Hey,” he replies. He sounds a little confused. I almost never call him this late. “What’s up?”

Another wave of panic sweeps through me. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.” I move to hang up.

“Wait,” he says, a tinge of worry entering his tone. “Skye, what’s wrong?”

I take a shaky breath in. “Everything,” I whisper. “I feel… I feel like I’m dying.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath through the phone. “Are- are you okay?”

I shake my head before I realize that he can’t actually see me. “Panic attack,” I whisper instead.

“Oh,” he says, a little bit of understanding entering his voice. “You’re- you’re not really… dying, are you?”

I open my mouth to say yes, yes I am, but something stops me. A logical voice, creeping back into my brain. “I… it feels like it. But maybe not.”

I hear Daniel sigh in relief. “Oh, thank God,” he murmurs. “But… are you doing okay? Are you still panicking?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “It’s really bad this time.”

“Okay,” he says, and I can picture him biting his lip, thinking. “Okay, Skye. Do you remember what we did last time you felt like this? You focused on your breathing, remember?”

“I tried that already. I tried breathing, and it didn’t work, and-”

“Skye,” he says. His voice is calm and clear, and I try to focus on that. “It’s going to be alright. Okay? It’s going to be alright.”

“I- I don’t… I can’t-”

“Listen to me. I’m here for you. We’re going to try breathing again, okay? Maybe it’ll work better this time, okay Skye?”

 I can’t speak. My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s going to explode.

“Skye?” Daniel says again, more insistent. More worried.

“Mhm,” I manage to squeak out.

“Okay,” he says again. “Breathe with me. In…”

I breathe in.

“...and hold it for a few seconds…”

I hold my breath for a few seconds.

“And out.”

I breathe out.

“And again.”

I focus on Daniel’s voice as he repeats it, over and over again, as long as it takes. He sounds so calm, so sure of himself, even though I know he must be worried about me. 

I don’t know how long I lie there, holding my phone. Just breathing with him, in and out. But finally, my heart rate starts to slow. The knot of anxiety loosens in my stomach. My thoughts stop bouncing around my head like Ping Pong balls.

Daniel seems to sense the change, too. “Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” I whisper. “I think… I think I’m going to be okay.”

He lets out a sigh of relief. “That’s good. That’s really good, Skye.”

The two of us are quiet for a minute. The silence is comfortable -- just two friends in the middle of the night.

“Daniel?” I finally say.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. This… I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

I can almost hear him smile. “Any time, Skye. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here. Always.”

The two of us are quiet for a minute. I let myself breathe, slow and steady.

“Goodnight, Daniel,” I say.

“Goodnight, Skye,” he replies, and I hang up.

I shut off my phone, its blue glow replaced by a rich and strangely comfortable darkness. It’s hard to believe that only a little bit ago, I was completely panicking. Now, I can feel my heart beating a slow, even rhythm in my chest. My breathing has gone back to normal. I don’t feel perfect, of course -- I rarely do after a panic attack -- but as I curl up beneath my blankets, I allow myself a tiny smile.

It feels really good to know that Daniel is there for me. His words echo in my thoughts: “I’ll be here. Always.” Through everything. Through the good moments and the bad. Even through the panic attacks.

Always.