PERSPECTIVE: Struggling to cope with panic attacks during college

Sitting in Cardio-pulmonary Pathophysiology class, I listened to a guest lecture on heart defects in newborn children. Thirty minutes later, I couldn't hold my pen, the tips of my fingers began to go numb and my heart raced. I left the lecture hall to get air, but began to hyperventilate. I signaled a classmate for help, and less than an hour later, I was in the emergency room. The reason was not a heart attack. It was a panic attack.

This panic attack was one of many that have come about because of my physical, emotional and spiritual decline at Boston University.

Many have described my life as a season of 30 Days. I try different things all the time: ROTC, chemistry, living in the Castro of San Francisco for five weeks. But with the exception of two close friends, most people don't see the painful transition periods that have dominated my college experience and how they have contributed to who I am today.

Freshman year was mostly what I expected, very awkward, tough and full of good times at the expense of schoolwork. None of the downsides bothered me because I was having a fun doing it.

By the end of freshman year, I wanted to transfer to the College of Communication, but a poor GPA and hesitant parents got me to take a summer course and continue on the chemistry course.

Cue sophomore year. By November, my hair was down to my shoulders, and I received a letter from the U.S. Army asking to join the ROTC. I thought about it and decided to give it a try. In just a few months not only had I lost my hair, but I also lost 50 pounds and was on my way to becoming a Second Lieutenant.

My grades took a nosedive in the spring, and I decided to transfer into Sargent College of Health and Rehabilitation Sciences and study human physiology. From there the fun really began.

I was running 30 miles per week during the summer, and I was in the best shape of my life. I was living by myself in a four-person apartment, working a day job while my two best friends were working nights as servers downtown.

I spent huge amounts of time by myself and began to fall into depression -- a problem exacerbated by the fact that one of my friends was in Washington, D.C. for the semester.

In September, I sustained a heel injury that kept me from walking for several days, and it was the beginning of the end of my time with ROTC.

My depression kept getting worse. I had frequent anxiety attacks and constantly considered checking in to the hospital.

During Halloween 2005, I went to Washington, D.C. for my best friend's birthday, but it was not enough to lift my spirits. By January I was a wreck, winter break was miserable, and my heel was still injured.

I succumbed to a severe panic attack in February, and I became unresponsive. I was driven to the hospital where I underwent psychological testing.

I said goodbye to ROTC and a full-tuition scholarship.

I started psychotherapy, but my insurance company wouldn't cover the sessions. Long enough, though, to be diagnosed with severe anxiety and possible bi-polar disorder and placed on medication.

By the summer of 2006, I had been living in the same apartment for 21 months and was ready to go home. But after only five weeks of being home, I had a severe panic attack and several minor ones, so I spent the remainder of the time in the Castro of San Francisco to get away from everyday stress.

There I was exposed to one of the gayest neighborhoods on the planet, and it gave me great perspective on how other people live, but still no more insight into how I was going to survive BU.

I returned to Boston and took the position of photo editor of The Daily Free Press -- something I had wanted to do for two years. My plan was to finish my Physiology degree and move onto photography.

Still, I've missed class and gone to the hospital for yet another panic attack. Each time I walk through the emergency room doors, I become more afraid of having another one.

It took me a long time to walk away from my experiences with anything but misery.

On All Saints Day, I attended my first funeral. I went for a friend, but endured it for myself. The eulogy told of the great man in the casket and it brought to light my flaw: I was just surviving, not living life to the fullest. But as I continue on at BU, I'm learning more about my problem and it gives me hope that I can, one day, have the courage to give up the expectations of others in place of my own.

Bob Henne is a senior in Sargent College of Health and Rehabilitation Sciences and the photo editor of The Daily Free Press.