Once I understood what a panic attack was, that I wasn’t going crazy or having a heart attack, I tried to remember when I’d had my first one.  I thought if I could figure out when they started, there might be an event or even a person that I could blame.  Instead, what I realized was that I’d been having them since I was a child.  More than likely, my body chemistry is to blame. 

The first panic attack that I can remember in any sort of detail happened when I was about eight years old. It was a warm late summer day, but I felt cold.  The sun that burned the concrete edge of the pool under my feet had no effect on me.  I shivered, my chubby arms crossed tight against the chest of my yellow tank suit.  Goosebumps stung my skin and it was hard to breathe around the pain in my chest.  I tried not to look at the water, but there was so much of it.  The sun reflected a bright white, like teeth, off the tips of ripples made by my swimming teacher Linda as she circled the deep end, impatiently waiting for me to jump. 

I didn’t have to hide that I was crying.  The tears were invisible against the pool water that dripped down my face from the green tips of my chlorine stained hair.  Linda swam over to the edge, close enough that only I could hear her.

“Damn it, Jill, quit being such a baby and just jump,” she hissed.

© Salahub 2003