Adolescence: just the worst.
My first panic attack came in January of my senior year of high school. Looking back, you can see the obvious triggers, but it was just as likely that I could have gone through the whole day and been fine. Our English class was in the library listening to a special guest speaker: a Holocaust survivor. Obviously, she wasn't doing a stand-up routine. At the same time, my mom was in the hospital going through major surgery. I received a page from my dad telling me that she had just come around. And I think somewhere in my mind I must have realized that one day I would have to tell thousands of people that I was old enough to be a senior in high school when pagers were the hip new thing.
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We mostly used them to let someone know when we'd mailed them dick pics.
About five minutes after I got the page, I started freaking out. I felt like I was floating a foot or two above my body and had this overwhelming feeling that something really bad was happening. It felt like I wouldn't be able to take my next breath, even though I had started hyperventilating. I vaguely remember grabbing the hand of the person sitting next to me and asking them to get the teacher. Or I might have screamed it; I have no idea. The next thing I knew I was in a wheelchair being taken out to an ambulance while everyone stared at me.