I swear to God I’m not exaggerating when I say this is the worst panic attack I’ve ever had.
I had just wrapped up a few days in Camarines Sur, where I had joined our emergency team for the response to Typhoon Kristine. It wasn’t my first emergency response, and by this time I’d traveled so much that it didn’t seem like a big deal.
Because my birthday was coming up, I didn’t stay with the team for very long, less than a week, in fact. I left the team in Naga, and I was alone in a rented car for the long drive to the airport in Daraga, Albay. It was November 6.
I should have napped, but instead I was looking at my phone. All over my Facebook feed, friends in the US were posting updates from the elections, and in every single one, Trump was winning.
I don’t remember what came first, if it was the tears, or the nausea, or the hyperventilating, but I remember it happened in quick succession. Traffic was bad, and it was hot and sunny. I felt like throwing up. I couldn’t breathe properly. I was dizzy. My hands were going numb, so much so that I could barely hold my phone. Quickly I counted, how many hours till I get to the airport, how much time before my flight? I had time to fall apart, I figured, and to pass out if I took my pill. Surely the driver would wake me upon arrival at the airport, so I likely wouldn’t miss my flight.
I took my anxiety medication, but my throat felt so tight that I couldn’t swallow the pill. Even after three sips of water, I felt the pill sitting in my throat, unable to descend.
I don’t remember when I started crying.
My throat felt like it was locking up. The numbness that was in my hands appeared on my face, going down my neck, my torso. I worried that I would stop breathing. Even my feet and my legs felt numb. My fingers locked up, my hands like dried twigs that might break. And in my chest, despair, shivering.
I messaged some friends to tell them that I was having a panic attack. I tried calling Oneal, but he didn’t pick up. I called my mom.
I just barely got the words out. “I’m having a panic attack,” I gasped, and I could hear the worry in my mom’s voice as she asked how I was feeling, what happened, what I could do, what she could do, did I have water and meds, did I eat. “Just talk to me, please,” I asked her between sobs.
I remember a babble of words. Stupid US elections. Stupid Trump. How could people be so selfish. How could people vote for a convicted felon. I was so angry. I was so upset. I was so disappointed. And I had just come from an emergency, where people told me the horrible things they survived. I told her about the people who were injured, the greedy people who charged their neighbors for rescue at the height of the floods, the rice fields that were submerged under floodwaters. I was so appalled. Why, why were people so greedy and selfish, why couldn’t people just help their neighbors and be more considerate and compassionate?
I tear up again now, trying to recall all the things I said.
I remember my mother trying to calm me down, talking me through my anxiety and distress.
We talked for 45 minutes. I don’t remember how the conversation turned, but by the end of it I was cracking jokes, about what I don’t remember. “You sound much better,” my mom said. She seemed relieved. “I guess the meds are finally working,” I think I said.
We ended the call, and I suppose the medication was taking effect because I eventually fell asleep, waking only when we were almost at the airport. I felt raw as I got my bags and checked into my flight. On auto-pilot, I found food, looked around for souvenirs, found a place to sit, listened for flight announcements. I still felt drugged, but at least I wasn’t hyperventilating or crying uncontrollably.
I got on the plane, and I could feel the anxiety creeping back. But I made it home.
A week later I had a session with my psych, and she told me: “This is burnout. You need a break.” She was right. While I was hyperfocused on November, and all the travel and work I had that month, the months leading up to this trip were also packed, stressful, and exhausting. I’d been overworked and fed up for a long time, and I’d finally reached a breaking point.
I’d had panic attacks before, but this was something else. I really thought I would pass out.
Luckily Oneal had insisted I request a prescription of anxiety meds before I left for my trip, otherwise I wouldn’t have had any meds to calm me down. Luckily I was safe in the car. Lucky too that I could call my mom for help.
I hope I never go through that again. And I hope that in 2025, I can manage myself and my workload better.
Please take care of yourselves, people. There’s no health without mental health.
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