I feared sleep and its absence equally. Away from home, I suffered from terrible nightmares, dreams of a woman with long fingernails and a black, forked tongue sitting at the edge of my bed, of witches who emerged in the moonlight.
Not only was I going to die someday, but I was very small in comparison to the rest of the world, which was rather large. I couldn't get over how small I felt. I was an ant and the universe was expansive and I was drowning in the hugeness of it all.
The next time I felt the familiar foreboding before a panic attack, I said to myself, "Go ahead, have this panic attack. It's been a stressful week and this is your way of dealing with it. Nothing bad will happen, it's just going to be uncomfortable and will only last a little while."
Even if you've never worked out before, you would be amazed at how quickly your body can adapt and grow stronger when you get moving. If there's one thing I've learned through this process, it's that you should never underestimate your own strength.
Sure, we need to pay the bills. We all have responsibilities. But taking the time to ask yourself what makes you happy and what doesn't every so often surely isn't a bad thing. Life is too short to spend it in a job, or a relationship, or a situation that makes you miserable.
Friday night, PGA Tour rookie Charlie Beljan was wondering if he'd live another day. On Sunday afternoon, he was standing in the winner's circle of the Children's Miracle Network Hospitals Classic just outside Orlando, Fla.
As I was putting my last article together, I became really curious about why it seemed that almost all of the people who came forward and offered to share their personal experiences with me regarding anxiety were women.
I do my best to keep things in perspective, acknowledging that Harriet is not in pain, that we are not talking about a major illness here -- no heart problems, no cancer, so much to be grateful for at 95. But even this -- a simple cataract operation -- is unbelievably stressful and complicated.
I was 12 years old, and there was no way one could "get out of" the eighth grade at the Francis W. Parker School of Chicago without memorizing and reciting the poem. Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Kubla Khan: or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment," to be precise.
I don't know when I decided to call it a nervous breakdown. Some can't even have this conversation because it would mean looking at things they're trying not to see. I know how they feel because two years ago, I was one of them.