Samantha – Age 21

My sophomore year of college was enriched with family, friends, sorority sisters, successful academic achievement and a loving boyfriend. A terrifying new element was suddenly added one evening. I was lying in bed and began to sweat profusely. My heart was racing and I could not stay still. I had an overwhelming foreboding that something terrible was about to happen to me and I couldn't escape it. I called my dad to explain my symptoms and he suggested that I go to the hospital. I wanted to go there alone because I could not bear the thought of anyone seeing me in a helpless, hopeless state.

At the hospital, the doctor thought I might be dehydrated. But even though he gave me fluids and medication to help me sleep, I lay awake crying all night. Never had I felt so out of touch with myself. How had I changed from an independent, secure and adaptable young woman? I didn't want anyone to judge me, so I didn't want anyone to know.

I went through my days smiling on the outside, crying on the inside. People surrounded me yet I felt completely isolated. I slept very little, ate very little, and thought very little about anything other than how pathetic I was. Though a small part of me understood the anxiety I was feeling, the other part of me thought I was crazy. In fact I was sure of only one thing: I was alone in my condition. It wasn’t long before I discovered how wrong I was.

Dana – Age 31

I was a sophomore in college on a trip to Niagara Falls with my mom. I remember riding on the tram to the Falls and feeling disoriented and not quite right. Later, I suddenly felt like I was drowning and couldn’t reach the water’s surface. I experienced five to ten minutes of sheer terror and became virtually incapacitated for the remainder of the vacation. A trip to a Canadian hospital determined that it was probably something I had eaten earlier. I wondered was I really dying and no one knew it?

Once back in college, I pretty much forgot about the experience in Canada and resumed my normal activities. But, one night during an on-campus study hall with my head buried in a financial accounting textbook, it happened again. I experienced a powerful rush and felt as if I were no longer seated in my chair. I muttered to a friend beside me, “you’ve got to get me out of here.” Public safety officers rushed to my aid, checked my vital signs, and again determined that nothing was wrong. But now I knew something was. My fear of what had transpired became so unbearable that I could no longer attend classes. I dropped out of school for the semester and moved home.

I went to multiple doctors trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me. They offered up an array of misdiagnoses. Until finally my mother learned of a local anxiety disorders clinic. This is where I was able to get accurate information that matched my symptoms. I had panic disorder.

Due to a subsequent agoraphobia, I was relearning how to walk down the street again and leave the safety of my home. With suitable specialized treatment, I returned to college (the next semester) and graduated Magna Cum Laude. I have since lived and worked overseas, commenced graduate school, founded a panic and anxiety support group to help others in need, and even developed an inspirational CD-ROM about my story.

Rita – Age 60

After more than 20 years of not going to a grocery store, restaurant or public place alone, not driving out of my safe area and not attending school functions for my children, I began my difficult recovery from panic disorder, agoraphobia and social phobia.

Although it took a great deal of convincing and courage on my part, I sought help from a therapist. Many times I thought about reverting to my safehaven, but my therapist kept asking me if I wanted to spend the next 40 years guided and directed by my fears. Did I want to be free to go to the store or drive to any destination? Or was I going to spend the next 40 years making and creating clever excuses as to why I was unable to participate in living, laughing, and being whole?

It was time to be honest with myself. I was determined to recover. Then and only then did I experience my first stages of anger. It was a healthy anger – an anger that was followed with a determination to not quit and to learn to love and forgive myself for all that I was.

I do not remember a specific day when I first began to feel safe. I do remember learning not to be ashamed of having agoraphobia, not to be ashamed of my physical symptoms, and not to be ashamed of my recovery. I learned to become my own “safe person.” I began to take back the power that I had given away so many years ago – to other people and other things – to keep me safe.