Page 67 of Follow My Voice
“Klara?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I hurry past the other people seated in my row and rush down the steps of the bleachers, clutching my chest as if my life depends on it.
I can’t breathe.
I try to inhale but the air seems to get stuck in my throat, and I begin to panic. I reach the bottom of the steps and turn the corner to stand against a dark wall hidden behind the bleachers. I can feel my heart in my throat, tears of fright rolling down my cheeks. I can’t get any air into my lungs. I’m suffocating.
I’m alone… I’m going to die here, alone, no one is going to help me.
With trembling fingers, I pull out my cell phone, but it slips from my hands… A tingling feeling spreads over my face and limbs… I’m hyperventilating. I’m going to pass out if this keeps up, so I try to remember what Dr. B. has told me:“When you’re having a panic attack, your body goes into fight or flight mode and the rational part of your brain is completely blocked. That’s why you can’t think clearly and you truly believe that you’re dying, even without any real reason to justify this belief. The first thing you have todo is calm your body and your mind to get out of this state of fight or flight and be able to think rationally again.”
Calm my body.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the ground, my legs stretched out in front of me and my hands on my thighs, next to my knees. I close my eyes, raise one hand, and then lower it, letting it fall against my thigh. I then do the same with the other hand, repeating this movement over and over, patting myself in a gentle, quiet rhythm. I focus on this sequence, on the sensation of my fingers as they fall on my thighs, first one hand and then the other, over and over. “I am calm.” I repeat the mantra Dr. B. has had me practice. “I am safe, I am”—I swallow—“protected.” Whenever my mind wanders back to worrying about my racing heart or my difficulty breathing, I refocus my thoughts on the rhythmic slapping. “I am calm, I am safe, I am protected.”
I repeat the words over and over, keeping my hands moving. My breathing begins to regulate, as does my heart rate, but I don’t stop. I continue until I can breathe normally. I open my eyes, processing what just happened. A smile spreads across my face and I feel my chest swell with pride. For the first time, I’ve overcome a panic attack on my own, without anyone’s help or assistance. I used the tools Dr. B. gave me and it worked; I was able to get through it. There, sitting in the lonely darkness behind the bleachers, I smile over my accomplishment.
29Win Me Over
KANG
“SORRY ABOUT THEloss!”
“It was still a great game, dude!”
“We gotta celebrate, man, for even making it this far!”
Words of encouragement continue all around as I pack my uniform away. We lost the match 3–2 and don’t get to advance to the National Junior College finals. It stings because our team has won state several times and even went to nationals once, something we owe to Ares Hidalgo, a forward who, in his last year of community college, took the team to epic heights. I often feel the pressure from my team members, because I know that they expected me to follow in the footsteps of that legendary player. I gave it my all; I hope it was enough.
I high-five and thank everyone on my way across the lit-up field. The bleachers are almost empty, with just a few groups of students still gathered around.
“Oppa!” My younger sister comes up to me, giggling.
I smile and ruffle her wavy black hair.
She groans and pushes my hand away. “I told you not to do that, it makes me feel short.”
“You are.”
“Compared to you, maybe, but I’m actually average height.”
“Mina…” my mother says. We call my sister Mina, instead of Min-seo, because she likes it better. “Give your brother a break,” she says, smiling. “Excellent game, no matter the outcome.”
I immediately notice that they are alone—my father has not come with them. And although I expected this, it stings a little.
My mother seems to read my expression. “Your father…”
“I know.” It’s still hard for him.
“It’s late. Your sister and I will head home. Drive carefully, okay? And don’t stay out too late.”
“Okay.”
“Oppa, can’t I ride with you? Please, please!”
“Mina”—my mother takes her by the arm—“let’s go.”
