Sechsundzwanzig es ist ! Cheers

To whoever is reading this,

Before I say anything, how about you pause for a minute and think of something that really scares you. It could be anything — darkness, a closed lift, reptiles, water, heights, depths, or even (pardon the Bengali sarcasm) certain relatives. Jokes apart, fear shows up in curious ways. For some, it’s breathlessness, nausea, shivering hands, or uncontrollable tears. For others, it’s a blankness — a sudden switch-off. I’ve felt all of it, and sometimes nothing at all. That nothingness too has its own weight.

After all, I am living with all of these.  I live with panic attacks.

They have been companions for many years now — voluntary, involuntary, stubborn guests. It’s not that they haunt me every day, but I never quite control when they arrive. Earlier, I couldn’t even name them. Just an odd storm of sensations rushing in — dread, despair, helplessness. Later, after much reading and some medical consultations, I understood: these are called panic attacks. Awareness helped, but sometimes I wonder if knowing too much only sharpened the edges.

For me, they usually peak in 5–6 minutes — pounding heart, choking breath — and then linger for 20–30 minutes, leaving me drained. They can appear anywhere: in a classroom, on a bus, at a social event, or even in the middle of the night. At times, it feels as if the walls are closing in, as if the room itself is conspiring to shrink. And yet, months may pass without a single episode. That’s the unpredictability — and the cruelty — of it.

The worst mistake is isolation. The more you withdraw, the more panic shadows you. Heart races, muscles tighten, shame piles up — but solitude makes it worse. I know this too well. In trying to shield my parents from embarrassment, in my own ignorance, I’ve already lived years of isolation. Emotions thinned out, connections became difficult. I reduced myself to yes-and-no responses. Maybe I should have gone for therapy earlier — but fear, misconceptions, and money stood in the way. Even then, I know now that overcoming that nervousness is worth it. Someday soon, I will.

The worst part? My closest people, including my parents— the ones I thought would understand me without explanations — dismissed it all as an attention-seeking act. Instead of a hand on the shoulder, you are met with suspicion. Instead of comfort, you hear mockery. And slowly, you learn to hide your storms, even from the people sitting just a room away.

But then, maybe that’s how we grow up — realising that not everyone, not even your dearest, will understand you. Sometimes, you carry the weight alone.

My first attack — I will never forget. It was my second-year practical exam. I had written for two hours straight, confident, not a trace of stress. And then, out of nowhere — trembling hands, freezing feet, burning face, pounding chest. I barely managed to signal the professor before rushing out. My head of department saw me by the door, but before I could explain, I was panting, collapsing into breathlessness. They rushed me to the medical room. I couldn’t finish the paper, but somehow still scraped 60%. Yes, I was that student — the sincere, slightly smug Bengali wink included.

Since then, it has struck in buses, classrooms, conferences, and even in my sleep. I remember waking up blank, numb, unable to call for help. Nearly five years have passed, and on Monday, I’ll turn 26. Before that, I wanted to write this — to put it out into the world. To say I’ve grown with it. Learned to handle it better. Accepted it. I no longer hide my panic attacks.

Today, I am stronger. I don’t need anyone’s consolation or sympathy. I know my weaknesses, I know my strengths. I laugh with all my heart, and I cry just as fully. I work hard, study harder, earn my bread, and travel when I can. Most importantly, I’ve stopped apologising for my life. By 28, I hope to tick off the rest of my bucket list, too.

And to those who judge — I see those eyes. I hear the whispers. I laugh at the cowardice. Some people are jobless, what else can I say? Judge me more, please. Each smirk only adds to my strength.

Because panic attacks, anxiety — they are not weaknesses. They are situations. Very common ones at that. Yet people dismiss them as “stress” or “low BP.” But there are always reasons behind these eruptions. The point is — before chasing the promotion, the compensation hike, the dream house — stop. Figure yourself out. Until you love yourself, no external success will fill the void. Stress will always be there, like a shadow. And it’s okay to stumble sometimes, to admit weakness.

So live. Paint, eat, read, write, travel, laugh. Cry if you must. Work hard, but love yourself harder.