Gradually, over years and years, I found the right cocktail of confidence, desensitization, apathy, and medication to “conquer” panic attacks. Most importantly, I embraced coping instead of cure. I stopped trying to fight my panic attacks, accepted that they would happen, and that I would eventually get through them. I recognize that I have not seen the last panic attack of my life, and that’s okay. Expecting to completely defeat panic attacks was not a healthy state of mind and would just set me up for heartbreak each time I thought I was all better, only to “relapse.” This is also where the positive self-identification comes in. A close friend would remind me that anxiety is a “burden of greatness.” I began to see anxiety as a part of my complex self — a motivational tool and a vehicle for my passion. I’m not great in spite of my anxiety; rather, I’m great, in part, because of it.

Ironically, as I began to associate positively with anxiety, it began to diminish. I found myself with a newly unique situation: total identity crisis. For years, having panic attacks was a quirk (and granted, a crutch) that I had learned to embrace as part of my identity. Sharing and laughing about some of my panic experiences was another coping strategy for me — one that allowed me to connect with others. I likened myself to an overstimulated, slightly warped Manic Pixie Dream Girl. My panic antics made me loveable — and I could still use them to get out of lame-ass parties. I expressed this identity loss to my therapist with irritation: “What, am I just supposed to be normal now?” For my entire life, I had held tremendous disdain for people who had their shit together and now I was one of them? Wholly unacceptable.

When I first expressed my strange sense of sadness and loss to my husband, he comforted me accordingly.

“I was such a mess for so long,” I said. “It’s weird to not be a neurotic anymore.”

“Well,” he said. “Easy there. I don’t know that I’d say you aren’t neurotic anymore.”

However, life is strangely easier. I find myself voluntarily giving up my seat to stand on the train — a move I never could’ve made before, as I would’ve been terrified of standing up and fainting amongst my fellow sweaty commuters. I can eat alone at a crowded restaurant without major incident. I gave 10 work presentations last spring — AND DIDN’T DIE. It’s all a bit...tedious. Sometimes, I weirdly miss getting all worked up over nothing.

So where does one go from here? Well, for one thing, I need to come up with new excuses for bailing on parties. Perhaps a good ankle sprain? I work to remember that I was and am more than just a storm of panic. Some of the factors that led to manifestation of my anxiety (passion, motivation) still exist. I am the same person, but coping. I attempt to enjoy my less-frantic existence. While I might be sort of boring now, at least I don’t need a chaperone and a large dose of sedatives every time I have to go to the doctor or get on a plane. I can sit back, relax, eat my salmon salad, and feel tremendously grateful that today, I am calm.