My panic attacks became regular occurrences. I’d get upset about something someone did wrong, or about something I myself did wrong, and boom, the attack would start

I never had any reason to be depressed.

Other than my family moving to Eretz Yisrael when I was six I haven’t suffered any significant trauma in my life. My parents and siblings are wonderful stable people and my school experiences were generally positive.

Yet I was depressed practically from the time I was born. My parents remember me screaming for the first six months of my life. When I was a little girl if anything went the slightest bit wrong I felt deeply wounded. Whether I had a tussle with my sister or I did poorly on a test or my friends left me out of a secret I would retreat to my bed and sulk for hours. My parents would try to talk to me and soothe me but I wouldn’t answer them and they would get frustrated by my refusal — or inability — to explain what was wrong. I don’t know what I wanted them to do but whatever it was they weren’t doing it.

When I was 11 I started having panic attacks. These weren’t classic panic attacks in the sense that I didn’t feel afraid; I just felt completely overwhelmed. My heart would pound I would start shaking and sweating my limbs and face would go numb and I would have difficulty breathing. The first time this happened my parents thought I was having an allergic reaction. They rushed me to the hospital where I underwent extensive allergy testing all of which came back negative.

Someone in the hospital suggested that I see a therapist so my parents found me one. I didn’t work well with her though so after a short while I stopped going to her. In the meantime my panic attacks became regular occurrences. I’d get upset about something someone did wrong or about something I myself did wrong and boom the attack would start. During these attacks I became extraordinarily sensitive to sensory input — even the ticking of a clock felt unbearable — so I would flee to a small dark quiet place where I could be alone. Once there I would feel this overpowering urge to get out of my body. I felt trapped inside myself in the room in the world.

Eventually these attacks became part of my routine and I learned to live with them. Between episodes I felt numb in a depressed but unfeeling sort of way. I cruised through life getting up in the morning going to school and doing what I was supposed to do but not enjoying or feeling excited about anything.

In ninth grade the attacks became much much worse. They escalated into quasi-psychotic episodes in which I’d act insane clawing at myself pulling at my hair and crying uncontrollably. I felt overwhelming pain and sadness even though nothing in my life was really wrong. I can’t continue living like this I thought. That’s when I started thinking of hurting myself.