"I can't breathe, can you take me to the hospital..."

The words I remember telling my mom at the age of 23. I ended up at the A&E. After a couple of tests that included drawing blood and even an x-Ray, the doctor told me, "You are perfectly fine." Just before the doctor discharged me, he said, "I am not an expert in this field, but maybe you should talk to a professional?"

What the fuck did he mean by that? Talk to a professional? Are you calling me a psycho? These thoughts marched through my head. I mumbled under my breath, "No its okay, I'm fine" and left the hospital with my mum.

If I only knew, that was my first-ever Panic Attack experience, the first day I met this monster. In the next fourteen years, these panic attacks would keep haunting me. I kept brushing them aside, making excuses like, "Oh I played football that's why" or "Oh, the aircon is too cold in the room that's why". But little did I know, with these excuses, day by day, I was only feeding my monster, causing him to grow bigger and stronger. And he grew and grew until one day, he almost engulfed me. That day I remembered vividly, when I was lying down on my bed one afternoon, with no one at home, the monster came, and he got me so good. The fucker 'sat' on my chest. I couldn't move from my bed, I felt paralysed and breathless.

After fourteen years of compressing my panic attacks, the excuses I made, the questions I deflected, the lies I told myself, the monster finally came out of the fucking cage, baring its ugly teeth, ready to eat.

I cried, I broke into a sweat, every passing minute lasted for what felt like an eternity. The thoughts I had that day, I pray my worse enemy would never have. I remember shutting my eyes and saying "This is it, I want to end this all."

The next thing I knew, I was knocked out cold and fell asleep. I apparently became so exhausted from that panic attack that I ended up sleeping. When I woke up, it felt like a 'hangover', my chest feeling a bit sore, my mouth dry and I was feeling light-headed. But the monster was gone. My mind slowly tried to ring in normal thoughts of "What should I eat? Or what's on TV?".

After I settled into the rest of the day, I composed myself and did a post-mortem of 'What the fuck just happened?' The answer to that question is simple, I needed help, some serious professional help. Not a shoulder to lean on, not a comforting hug from a friend, but medical intervention. And I decided to get it. In my head, I kept telling myself, "This has to end, this has to end, I can't keep on living like this." I spoke to my wife that day and she told me that she had known for a while that I suffered from anxiety and panic attacks. She was not surprised and in fact, happy that I had decided to take the first step for myself and my mental health. We promptly made appointments and she followed me to get help.

Can you guess the words that came into my head at that time? "I am not an expert in this field, but maybe you should talk to a professional?" Fourteen years later, but just as relevant. My monster wasn't something which could be tamed with age, or maturity. If anything, it only got wilder and hungrier.

I am still going through therapy and I am also on medications. Slowly but surely, I know I will get there. There will be good days there will be okay days and then there will be horrible fucking days. I am slowly accepting and being open about my mental health with my friends and on social media. It has taken me a very long time to get here and be an advocate and I am appreciative of the love from my wife, family and close friends.

Some days, there is still that constant worry about what my work place may think or what people will think. I've had friends who have been supportive and also friends who have passed that occasional, "Huh, you've got mental health issues, but you're so talkative and you're always joking" or "Why so emotional, just stay positive," and the best one yet, "You don't need to go on Social Media to seek attention, you can just talk to someone". At the end of the day, I don't blame them or fault them at all, they don't know my struggles, and the path I've walked on.



Instead, I try to educate them. I think we all have our very own monsters, and for me l, my battle is on-going. I don't need sympathy and I don't need favours. What I do need is support, understanding and patience, to make sure I stop feeding my monster. I dream of the day that I wake up, and go through an entire day without the monster crippling me.

I aim to learn how to walk the monster by my side, much like a dog on a leash.