8. The Real Battle Begins…
I still had 3 months left of my senior year in high school and in addition to sorting out my grief, I was in the running to be valedictorian of my class. As I said earlier, I did not have a 4.0 grade point average but I was very, very close. So I worked hard at my assignments, tests and extra credit projects. Okay, I worked as hard as any senior girl with a crush on the pastor’s son and who had major senioritis could work.
I remember sitting in English class taught by one of my favorite teachers of all time. We were writing in our journals and I began taking very quick, short breaths. I became light-headed and thought, “what in the world is the matter with me?” Then my fingers curled themselves into the palms of my hands and I started to cry. Trying not to make a scene, I walked up to the teacher and asked if I could go to the bathroom. Taking one look at me, she suggested quietly that I go to the school office and asked my good friend to go get my sister to send her with me.
By the time I arrived at the office, I was completely freaked out. I was seventeen and my hands were clawed up like an arthritic old woman! I couldn’t breathe, thought I was going to puke or pass out and my sister was just as flabbergasted as I. The secretary calmly gave me a paper bag and I received my first lesson in managing hyperventilation. Little did we know that it was my very first panic attack and this would become a regular routine for me.
Because my family was very strong in spiritual matters and very Godly in many things, it never occurred to me that I might need to ask for help. I figured, “a child of God does not have to suffer like this!” And I would struggle for understanding, for release and for healing. While it is true, God doesn’t want His kids to suffer, I was far too invested in the steps I could take to gain His healing to see what He had easily given for me. Instead I lived between episodes trying to handle the symptoms of panic attacks the best I could. I would always ask Mom and Dad to pray, I would recite my “peace” Scriptures over and over. The attacks came at random times and it was years before we thought to look for “trigger events” or anything like that. At the same time, I was getting quite sick each month with female issues and began having intestinal problems. Nothing was ever quite bad enough to be diagnosed with anything treatable and so I became quite good at managing the panic attacks, monthly issues and intestinal irritations.
As the months passed, graduation loomed ahead and I would indeed be giving the valedictory speech on graduation night. I wrote my speech, helped plan the ceremony, cried with my best friends and made my plans for college. To this day I appreciate my high school experience and all of the friendships I had while there. Those friends walked with me through the darkest times of my life so far and I am so grateful God had appointed them to be there for that specific period.
Of course, I still found plenty of time for fun and was still dating the pastor’s son. By the beginning of my first year in college, we had settled into our own ways and felt quite comfortable with each other. Physical temptation was always rearing its head at us but I’m still proud to say that God protected us. I had chosen a college within commuting distance and convinced him that he should transfer there too. We were smart enough to only sign up for one class together and life moved along nicely. Then during the holidays in 1993, Dad found an advertisement in a worship magazine that he showed to me saying, “wouldn’t that be great if you could do that?” And so began another adventure.
I still had 3 months left of my senior year in high school and in addition to sorting out my grief, I was in the running to be valedictorian of my class. As I said earlier, I did not have a 4.0 grade point average but I was very, very close. So I worked hard at my assignments, tests and extra credit projects. Okay, I worked as hard as any senior girl with a crush on the pastor’s son and who had major senioritis could work.
I remember sitting in English class taught by one of my favorite teachers of all time. We were writing in our journals and I began taking very quick, short breaths. I became light-headed and thought, “what in the world is the matter with me?” Then my fingers curled themselves into the palms of my hands and I started to cry. Trying not to make a scene, I walked up to the teacher and asked if I could go to the bathroom. Taking one look at me, she suggested quietly that I go to the school office and asked my good friend to go get my sister to send her with me.
By the time I arrived at the office, I was completely freaked out. I was seventeen and my hands were clawed up like an arthritic old woman! I couldn’t breathe, thought I was going to puke or pass out and my sister was just as flabbergasted as I. The secretary calmly gave me a paper bag and I received my first lesson in managing hyperventilation. Little did we know that it was my very first panic attack and this would become a regular routine for me.
Because my family was very strong in spiritual matters and very Godly in many things, it never occurred to me that I might need to ask for help. I figured, “a child of God does not have to suffer like this!” And I would struggle for understanding, for release and for healing. While it is true, God doesn’t want His kids to suffer, I was far too invested in the steps I could take to gain His healing to see what He had easily given for me. Instead I lived between episodes trying to handle the symptoms of panic attacks the best I could. I would always ask Mom and Dad to pray, I would recite my “peace” Scriptures over and over. The attacks came at random times and it was years before we thought to look for “trigger events” or anything like that. At the same time, I was getting quite sick each month with female issues and began having intestinal problems. Nothing was ever quite bad enough to be diagnosed with anything treatable and so I became quite good at managing the panic attacks, monthly issues and intestinal irritations.
As the months passed, graduation loomed ahead and I would indeed be giving the valedictory speech on graduation night. I wrote my speech, helped plan the ceremony, cried with my best friends and made my plans for college. To this day I appreciate my high school experience and all of the friendships I had while there. Those friends walked with me through the darkest times of my life so far and I am so grateful God had appointed them to be there for that specific period.
Of course, I still found plenty of time for fun and was still dating the pastor’s son. By the beginning of my first year in college, we had settled into our own ways and felt quite comfortable with each other. Physical temptation was always rearing its head at us but I’m still proud to say that God protected us. I had chosen a college within commuting distance and convinced him that he should transfer there too. We were smart enough to only sign up for one class together and life moved along nicely. Then during the holidays in 1993, Dad found an advertisement in a worship magazine that he showed to me saying, “wouldn’t that be great if you could do that?” And so began another adventure.
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