Survivor

Have you ever had a panic attack? It's a terrible experience. Everything around you is pitch black, you can't see, you can't think, all sounds come from a distance. All you hear is your harsh breath and the thoughts that torture you, saying you should be stronger than this, that you're worthless, that all you've ever tried to accomplish isn't worth a thing. And most times, all you can do is lay still and hope to God it'll be over soon.

This is what I walked in on at work yesterday. A woman, buried under the blankets on her bed, sobbing and hyperventilating. I leaned against the window by her bed, and talked to her softly, telling her to breathe in time with my counting as I counted to ten and back again. At first, there was no reaction, but after a few seconds, she began to follow.

"Deep breaths," I said. "Focus on the air going in and out."

Slowly, her breathing slowed and she pulled the blanket off of her head. And we sat and talked. She told me her fears, her memories, her secrets. I listened, praying I'd have words to offer. She sobbed and asked me why this was happening to her, how could God let it happen to her, and all I could tell her was what brought me comfort once: that God gives his toughest battles to His strongest soldiers, and that she was so, so strong to have survived what she had already experienced. I told her she wasn't a victim, but a survivor, and she looked at me, and the light dawned.

"I'm alive," she said.

"Yes," I answered.

"Wow."

And then, a small, half-formed, half-hopeful smile slipped across her tearstained face.