PANIC DISORDER

FACING FEARS

In December 2015, I no longer remembered what it felt like to be well.
I had fallen into a vicious cycle, where fear of fear itself dictated my everyday life.
Very quickly, I made the same mistake most anxious people do in this situation.
I started reinforcing the illness-consciousness, which my mind reflected back more and more each day through physical symptoms.
Most often, this “I’m not in reality” feeling dominated, along with the usual physical symptoms like shortness of breath, a racing heart, and the rest.
It was at its worst in open spaces or among crowds.

It’s as if the comfort zone around you shrinks so much that you can feel its suffocating pressure.
A primal, instinctive fear would surface, screaming at me to run to a safe place.
Under such tension, it’s incredibly hard to take a step back and observe yourself from a distance.
It feels like the everyday situations that once seemed natural suddenly turn against you —
like getting on a bus or walking into a store.

But the truth is, it’s never the actual situation —
it’s the memories associated with those situations that trigger the fear.
That might sound obvious, but it’s still an essential starting point.

The first episodes are so terrifying that they’re nearly impossible to forget.
The mind, like everything else, records them, labels them, and files them under a certain category.
But it doesn’t distinguish between real danger and a walk outside, if both trigger the same sensation.
It classifies them the same —
as if someone were threatening your life.

And just to top it off, you open Google and start identifying yourself with what you're experiencing.
“Oh my God…
This is panic disorder!
Exactly what I was afraid of.”

It took just a few clinical articles for me to decide:
I’m getting out of this on my own.
I won’t “live” my life on medication — I thought.

Then I started wondering:
How the hell can I reverse this damned program?

Maybe if I intentionally put myself into situations that triggered anxiety — especially the most uncomfortable ones — eventually I’d get used to them and break the cycle.
Because at some point I’d just adapt, right?
Like a kind of training.

That was the simple plan —
inspired largely by my mindset from skating.
I had already skated down so many rails before.
I loved overcoming that kind of fear, because it was all about pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone.

another me in 2011

Your mind simply doesn’t let you jump onto that steep, unfriendly rail —
but the curiosity becomes stronger.
You roll back and forth until something inside you clicks, and suddenly — you’ve landed at the bottom.
Hopefully still on your feet.
Once you’ve dared to jump, the next time is a piece of cake.
That first time is always the hardest.

I could draw incredible strength from this.
I made a decision —
I was going to do it no matter what.
So I summoned my most sadistic self and stared my fears in the face, teeth clenched.

By that point, those fears covered everything outside our front door.

God knows what I must’ve looked like, hugging the metro pole like a koala.
It was like being launched out of a rocket…
I wandered around Deák Square like a toddler trying to make sense of the big scary world.
It’s a miracle I didn’t wet myself — though I came close a few times.

Well, there you go.
“Extreme Dani,” who used to take on every crazy challenge, was suddenly brought to his knees by unresolved traumas waiting to be dealt with.
He’d been getting warning signs for ages —
but ignored them.
So a higher version of himself stepped in, cracked down, and tore down the arrogance.

Because at some point, the masks we wear begin to crumble.

So yeah...
Within a few weeks, my symptoms slightly eased — but only after I had finished the day’s obligations and was on my way home.
That gave me some sense of relief — especially when night had already fallen.
Maybe because the darkness softened that once-normal daylight scenery,
which by now had morphed into a high-contrast, three-dimensional simulation.

That’s what I meant earlier when I said it felt like being “pulled out of the matrix.”
There was no rational explanation I could find for this feeling —
which only made it more unbearable.
It was especially terrifying when I had to speak.
It was as if I’d split into two separate selves:
One who talked, and another who listened from the outside.

It created a complete sense of physical disconnection —
which only pushed me further to the edge.

So that’s how those few weeks in December played out.
No matter how hard I tried to reverse the program, I couldn’t get used to the daylight.
I often relapsed so badly that even the temporary refuge of night became unstable again.
This constant fight-or-flight state drained all my energy —
especially since I often couldn’t even eat until I got home.

The hardest part of this state is that you feel completely alone with it.
Not your parents, not your friends —
not even a psychologist can truly understand what you're going through.

Believe me, I know.
And I also know that — despite appearances —
this is a gift.

But only…
if you dare to open it.