Panic Essay -- Personal Narrative Writing

Panic We loaded up the car and headed out to Route 30. I had made this trip several times before, but this time it was one way. I had been excited to—as I saw it—get on with my life, but this day I was feeling less than enthusiastic. I figured it was the hassle of moving: this would be the second time my parents and I had transferred my things from home to a dorm room. This time my sister was along to lend a hand. We finally pulled up to the institutional-style brick building that was to be my home for the next three years. The August weather was typically hot and humid, but looking at the dormitory’s stark exterior, I suddenly felt a chill. As we entered the stuffy structure—it had no air conditioning—all my thoughts became focused on the many trips we would have to make up and down the three flights of stairs. Once a sufficient number of boxes were in the small room, I began to unpack while my father made the remaining trips to the car. As I arranged my new personal space, I forgot any reservations and actually became rather energized. My roommate had not yet arrived, and my sister and I joked and laughed while we hung photographs and relived the events they depicted. When the mysterious roommate finally made her entrance, the room fell silent. I have never been comfortable with new people, and we were from such different backgrounds that I could find no commonality to unite us immediately. It would simply take time, I had decided, and that was something of which I assumed we had plenty. Since I was almost done with my side of the room, and my roommate and her parents were not exactly chatty, my family and I decided to go out for dinner before they made the return trip. We went to a nearby restaurant, though we di... ... to the sink, but I could not bring myself to look in the mirror. I washed my face again, sipped some water from my cupped hand, and shakily returned to my room. At some point in my stupor, I had decided to call my mother at six o’clock, when I knew she would be waking up for work. I found my phone card and made another trip to the end of the hall, this time to the pay phone. I felt so low I could have been slithering across the floor. I had to tell her exactly what I had just been through, and that she had been right: I was not ready to go away again. I would have to return home with my tail between my legs and face something that I had always had trouble admitting: I needed help. I never wanted to spend another night like the one I had just endured. At the time, I still had no idea what had happened to me, but I will never forget that first and worst panic attack.