Everyone has a memory, good or bad, they just can't seem to forget. Whether you remember a specific smell, taste, emotion, or vision, there's a certain trigger that makes you feel like that moment, that memory, just occurred yesterday. My unforgettable memory is so extremely vivid, it's kind of scary. It was the weekend right before 4th of July, 1995, and I was 8 years old. That day changed my life forever. It was the day I experienced my first panic attack, and it ranks as probably one of the most severe ones to date. Before then, I had what I guess would be considered a normal childhood by anyone's standards. I was a lanky, outgoing girl that loved school and whose biggest worry was turning in that math homework. That night, my mom's best friend was getting married. I remember sitting in the living room watching cartoons, seeing my dad putting on his suit and my mom picking out her dress. My younger brother and sister were running around the house, being mischievous and dreading our babysitter's arrival. It was the early evening, and I hear my mom's heels hitting the floor as she's walking towards the living room, getting ready to give us 3 kids the "you better behave and not give the babysitter trouble" talk. It was routine. All 3 of us were supposed to just nod in agreement, stay quiet, and wait until past midnight for my parents to come home. But this time was different. As I saw both my parents talking to us, I started feeling cold. Shaky. Something I had never felt before. My mind was racing: What if my parents die in a car crash on the way to the wedding? What if one of them drops dead of a heart attack? What if someone shoots them and I never get to see them again? I felt faint. I stood up and just yelled "Don't go!" It literally looked like it was straight out of a scene of a movie. My parents look at me, confused, as do my brother and sister. I guess I expected them to just smile kindly, say "okay honey, we'll stay here tonight, no wedding for us," and then everything would be fine. My dad looked at me sternly and just said "behave" as he took my mom's hand and walked into the garage and into their car. An overwhelming feeling ran through my 8 year old body. An intense sense of dread filled me from head to toe. I couldn't let my parents go. It would be my fault if something happened to them because I could've stopped it and didn't. So I ran to the garage, where I saw their car pulling out, and ran in front of their car. "DON'T GO...YOU NEED TO STAY HERE!" My parents now probably thought I was just being spoiled, and they told me to just go inside the house, not to overreact, that they'd only be gone a few hours. The further I saw their car pulling away from our cul-de-sac, the more panic set in. I would not have been surprised in the least bit if I died of a heart attack then and there. My heart was racing, palms sweaty, I felt faint and nauseated and I just KNEW something would go wrong that night. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the cul-de-sac, in my pajamas, screaming and crying and begging for my parents to come back. That's when they knew something was wrong. I was always a well-adjusted, well-behaved child. The oldest of 3 at that time, I was the one they could count on to be responsible and the good older sister. This child was now screaming and crying and acting completely out of character. So after minutes of my mom trying to console me and convince me to go back inside the house, they pulled back into the garage, my mom brought me inside the house and hugged me until I calmed down and eventually fell asleep. That day changed my parents' life forever, too. They eventually learned they had to deal with the reality that they had a daughter with Panic Disorder and very severe anxiety/depression. The psychologist and psychiatrist I saw were convinced it was partially, if not all, genetic. After all, I came from a loving household, never having undergone any trauma in my life. I had never even known someone close to me, or even an acquaintance, that had died. I was a very happy, well-adjusted kid. But anxiety knows no boundaries. That's why I wanted to write this blog and my experiences throughout my life with anxiety and its different manifestations. Anxiety isn't an illness just for the poor, or unstable, or lower class. It strikes you and shows no mercy. It struck me at age 8, and never looked back. Almost 15 years later, I've definitely had my roller-coaster of experiences with anxiety. I've tried anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, herbs, therapies (both talk and exposure), breathing techniques and other techniques to handle stress, weekly massages, etc. There are times when I am faring better than others, but I have never been anxiety free. It has become a matter or coping with, and not curing, this illness. If there is one thing I wish I could tell myself at that age with what I know now, it would be this: You are not alone. You will get through this. You are stronger than you know.