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The Middle of the Explanation

My second panic attack took place in the middle of my daughter Sophie's high school graduation party. Because one isn't good enough, my body decided to take me on that thrill ride once again. It was June 2017. I'd already started going to therapy once a week, and I also saw a psychiatrist who sat with me for five minutes every couple of months and regulated my new antidepressants. We found a medication that works for me and I no longer walk around as if I have pins under my skin and feel like I've had seven too many cups of coffee. That's the best way to describe my anxiety. Anyway, the panic attack hit while we had guests in the house and Sophie's favorite songs were playing. Without saying anything to my family, I escaped up to our bedroom and closed the door. Luckily, I had started meditating and was able to work through it. When it was all done, I channeled my pride and excitement for Sophie to restore the energy I wanted to celebrate my daughter. At this point in my life, I was still trying to write, but basically movie reviews that I felt obligated to complete. There was guilt over just walking away from all that I'd tried to accomplish at Popdose, and guilt over the idea of giving up. I called myself a writer, so if I wasn't writing, what was I? Still, each and every thing I tried to write came with the sensation of dread and anticipation. It was like sitting outside the principal's office after getting caught doing something stupid, or waiting for a response from the person you have a crush on after sending them a handwritten not that said "I like you." Yet, I knew I needed to let go of something in order to begin healing and to become a better father and husband. Everything that I enjoyed lost meaning. Movies weren't fun. I couldn't sit still for a book. And music was just blah. When my iPod with over 160 GB is music files crashed and erased itself, I just went "meh." So I stopped, and it was the best decision that I made.

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