In April of 1965, after having just undergone a very traumatic physical and emotional event, I was literally slammed with a huge panic attack. My heart raced, I broke out in a sweat, and my head felt like it was spinning out of control. Of course I was convinced I was losing my mind and was just plain going crazy. After all, I thought, a normal person could never feel like this.

I went to my family doctor who told me that there was nothing wrong with me physically and that I needed to see a psychiatrist. Being young and scared, I told my mother what was happening to me. She said she knew exactly how I felt because she had been experiencing this since she was in her early 20's. We decided that I would see a psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist said I had an anxiety neurosis and we needed to delve into my childhood to find the missing key to this puzzle. Everyday was a monumental struggle for me. The panic attacks were unrelenting, as was the anxiety and depression. I couldn't deal with any situation from which I felt I could not escape.

And so my life went. Work, home and hell. The therapy was not working. I just prayed for some relief from the terrifying physical symptoms, but no relief was offered. After three years of psychotherapy I was no better.

Around the same time a gentleman whom I had been seeing all this time asked me to marry him. I said, "yes" to him and, "no" to more therapy. We began our married life like any other normal newlyweds, only I was far from feeling normal. I was too ashamed to reveal my secret to anyone, even my husband, so I continued to suffer in silence. After all how can you explain what you are feeling when it has no name? Surely he would think he had married a crazy person.

One day, out of desperation, I called the mental health facility in my area. They urged me to tell my husband. I was so ashamed of my problem that I couldn't tell him face to face, so I wrote him a letter. I explained it as best I could. He went into the bedroom to read my letter and when he came out his eyes were moist with tears. He asked me why I never told him. He was very understanding, and recognized that this explained a lot of my avoidance patterns.

One day, while with my husband in a bookstore, a self-help book caught my eye. I thumbed through it and it sounded like the author was talking about me. Still, I was so stigmatized that I was ashamed to buy the book in front of my husband. The next day I packed the kids in the car and drove, panic-stricken, on the freeway for 60 miles round-trip to buy the book. I white-knuckled it all the way.

Reading this book was like finding the golden ticket. What I was dealing with had a name and others suffered with it too. This became my bible. I participated in several self-help programs and, although they were reassuring, I still was practically at square one.

One beautiful Sunday morning I was alone reading the paper and came upon an article written by a psychiatrist. He described my problem and said antidepressants could help.
This began my quest to get some help in a different way. I found a doctor in my area who was using medication. It took about two years of different medications and a couple of different doctors to finally give me the relief I needed.

So, here I am today, 35 years later. I still take medication, but so does someone with diabetes. I no longer feel that stigma. My anxiety is at manageable levels and depression is very rare. I believe using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy along with the medications is what has worked best for me.

If you take medication, don't feel ashamed or weak. Know that you are