I still remember my first, and undoubtedly the most horrifying panic attack as if it happened yesterday. My heartbeat thundered, eyesight reddened and breathing stopped. The small confined world of the night bus seemed to flip upside down as I sat paralyzed in fear and shock. The logical part of me –  the one with the accumulated knowledge from the years I battled with depression and anxiety, along with psychology classes- tried to convince myself that it too, shall pass. Still, I could not believe a single bit of it. The terrifying reality of panic spasms completely overruled my judgment; I undoubtedly believed that I was going to die right there, right then.

What seemed like an eternity passed before my respiratory systems resumed working. A sudden, brief wave of relief washed over me.

 I survived. 

However, the solace was short-lived as the resentful skepticism kicked in. Why me? Why now? What did I do to deserve all this? I believed I lived up my life to the full extent, even with the impairments of my depression or anxiety problems. As I saw those conditions as obstacles that must be conquered through constant fast-tempo lifestyle, I crammed my schedule with rigorous classes, extracurricular activities, competition preparation, academic theses , and student council. The plan seemed to be effective as it left no spare time for me to collapse into the self-destructive circle of thought. 

 I was both furious and disappointed to find that the life I struggled so hard to maintain was built upon foundations as weak as sand. At that point, the fact that the self-consuming lifestyle of working and studying from 6 a.m. to 2 a.m.is probably the exact cause of the panic attack was of no importance to me. What mattered was that I had failed, and the dread of being proven incapable has become a reality. I suddenly felt vulnerable.

 The incident was the closest experience to dying I had, although the presence of death had always loomed over me – especially after my father’s cerebral hemorrhage. As a father and daughter who had nothing in common except the tendency to overload oneself with work, we were barely more than strangers to each other. When my father collapsed, he was in his hospital, and I was studying in a competitive after-school program for the high school admissions as any other day. I rushed to the hospital, to discover my father lying unconscious, stabbed with numerous needles in a place where I had seen him command and lead other doctors.

Despite the unbelievably faint possibility, my father recovered his consciousness after spending a week in the intensive care unit. However, more serious problems emerged when my father could finally speak again. His first words were a nearly unintelligible rant about how my mother and I had ruined his life and that he would never want to see our faces again. He angrily shouted “Get out of my house, spit out my money, and return my surname! I gave you two everything and look at this shit you landed my life upon!” The slight tenderness that remained between us shattered completely; horrified and injured beyond belief, I resentfully asserted that he never deserved to be husband and father. Since then, the pattern of my father violently accusing my mother of his illness and me condemning him for being repulsive and delusional continued for months. Being already occupied with my struggle through puberty and high school entrance exams, I refused to listen to my mother’s plea to try to understand my father’s anxiety and bitterness. I couldn’t forgive my father for what he has done to us in middle school even after I entered boarding school.

It was only after my panic attack that I could truly comprehend his fear and resentment. Admitting that all my efforts and sacrifices are so worthless and powerless in the face of death, or that I can only blame myself for the catastrophe is as challenging as denying my entire existence altogether. I could now see that especially for a man of his age, witnessing his life crumble so easily would have been traumatic; he had to deal with such grievous emotions when he was most vulnerable, just after he faced the horror of death. I realized that the sorrow, bitterness, and anxiety paralyze the sensible nature completely and can leave us in a defensive state ready to lash out at anyone regardless of my actual feelings towards them. 

As soon as I stumbled off from the bus, I called my parents and crumbled down wailing uncontrolled sobs for the first time in my life. When I managed to crudely explain about my panic attack, my father immediately answered, “Come home, darling. We’ll keep you safe”. At that moment, our past hatred, misunderstanding, bitterness and even the awkwardness of the word “dear” were replaced by the intimate understanding that only people who experienced the terror of death could share; we were, at last, reconciled.