For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life...

For the last few years, whenever I tried to talk about my experience with anxiety disorder, I ran into the same problem. I couldn’t describe myself as having an anxiety disorder because I’d gone months without having a panic attack. And I couldn’t say I had an anxiety disorder because I still felt its effects.

Trying to find the right verb was more than just semantics. For many years, having an anxiety disorder shaped nearly every bit of my life—where I went, who I went with, how long I stayed. I do not believe that anxiety disorder can be flipped off like a switch, and accordingly, simply using past or present tense did not accurately reflect how I was feeling. The body has an unbelievable capacity to remember pain, and my body was not ready to forget what I had been through. It was only about a year ago that I settled on saying, “I am in recovery from anxiety disorder.”

I was diagnosed with panic disorder only a few months into my freshman year of college. My first attacks were scattered and seemingly without pattern. But it wasn’t long before the attacks picked up speed and I was having several a day. I often felt nervous, not in control of my body, and convinced that I was going to die. As their frequency increased, it became difficult to do normal things like go to class, the dining hall, or parties.

It was textbook panic disorder. Only I didn’t know that. I thought I had gone crazy and that all the things I hoped for in my life—that my parents hoped for—were gone and that I’d become one of those stories (the one about the nice young girl who goes off to college with a bright future and comes home with a fistful of pills and a blank look on her face).

I am thankful that I possess two qualities: being forthcoming about my feelings and being proactive about my health. I believe that these qualities are a big part of the reason that I was able to ask for help. And getting help was surprisingly easy. One fall afternoon I went to my college’s counseling center and asked for an appointment. Within days I was seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist and was on medication.

That was ten years ago. Since that fall, I have seen more than a half dozen therapists and taken as many different medications. I’ve had two episodes where I nearly checked myself into a hospital. I have been to yoga and meditation classes, swung tennis rackets at pillows, practiced the art of breathing, tried hypnosis, and taken herbal remedies. I’ve done things that once seemed impossible—like going to crowded concerts or sitting with relative ease in a packed lecture hall. I’ve also gone many months at a time without panic attacks or medication. Most recently, I published I Don’t Want to Be Crazy, a memoir about my experiences with panic disorder.

People want to know why I’m better. They want to know the formula. Again, this is not a simple question with a simple answer. For sure, fluctuating hormones, growing older, moving out of my parents’ house, and becoming more confident and secure with myself have all impacted my recovery. The only thing I can say with certainty is that my commitment to therapy and my willingness to try new medications has made the most difference.