For a Paxil-free life, she'll take the long route

Some people can't stand the word "irregardless." A close friend of mine cannot stand hearing the word "panty" used in the singular.

My pet peeve is the misuse of the words "panic attack."

My cohort of grad school classmates frequently drop the phrase when they've had a mildly difficult night putting the finishing touches on a research paper: "Oh my God, I had a panic attack when I couldn't find that 2007 Caplan article I needed to cite!" I've heard others throw it around in other trivial ways: "Oh, I'm going to have a panic attack! I can't decide which purse to wear!"

These are not panic attacks. Call them shocks, scares or dilemmas. But not panic attacks.

If I could replace all of my true-blue panic attacks with the twinge of uncertainty that comes from not being able to locate a needed item or the frustration of indecision over a fashion accessory, I would. Real panic is much worse, and for me, it goes something like this:

I'm driving on the turnpike. There's no exit for another 20 miles.

What if my car breaks down? (Heart rate speeds up.) How will I get help? (Muscles get tight.)

Oh my God, why is my heart racing? Why are my muscles so tight? (Respiration grows shallow.)

What's going wrong with my body? (Head feels light.) What if I pass out? There's no exit for another 20 miles! Pull over!

My panic attacks began in college. They would occur during situations in which escape proved either difficult or embarrassing: in class, in my cellblock of a dorm room, on the highway. They became a daily event and interfered with my daily activities, so I did what countless direct-to-consumer television ads told me to do: I went to my doctor.

He gave me a script for Paxil, mumbled something about how half the population takes this sort of stuff and told me to take it easy.

After a week or two, the panic attacks just stopped. For this, I was thankful. I could drive, go to class and spend time in my dorm room. But Paxil had one pretty undesirable effect on me: I started to lose interest in just about everything. I stopped initiating social activities (who needs that sort of thing?) and was no longer motivated to perform well academically.

My emotions had flat-lined: I hadn't cried in months, nor had I proverbially jumped for joy. I felt -- nothing.

I was free of those nasty panic attacks, but was the trade-off worth it?