Understanding Panic Attacks: A Story of Inner Conflict, Mental Health, and Cultural Barriers

The Bus Ride 

Jamal’s chest felt like it was about to explode, like a grenade had lodged itself right beneath his ribs, ticking down with every second he sat on that damned bus. His car was dead, his marriage was dying, and he could feel something inside him tearing apart with every passing moment. Sweat dripped down his temple as the old bus rattled along, each bump sending waves of nausea through his gut. The world outside the window was just noise—blurring, spinning, mocking him as his mind raced with the endless pressures closing in on all sides. How did life become this constant war zone of obligations and failures? Work was a battlefield. The home was no longer a sanctuary. He loved Sofia—God, he loved her—but every word between them lately felt like a dagger, twisting deeper into his soul. And his kids? They needed more of him—more than he had to give. All he wanted to do was breathe, but even that felt like it was slipping away. 

<!–more–>

Suddenly, it hit him—a crushing, invisible force that slammed into his chest like a sledgehammer. His heart started pounding, wild and erratic, each beat louder and faster until it felt like it might burst. His hands went numb. The edges of his vision darkened, tunneling into a single point. Jamal gasped, clawing at his shirt, pulling at the collar like it was strangling him, like if he could just tear it off, he might somehow survive. 

The bus lurched, and Jamal stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the seat before him. Panic surged through his veins like a wildfire, burning up every rational thought. This is it. This is how I die. Right here, on this bus, surrounded by strangers. His chest heaved, the walls closing in as he staggered to the front of the bus. 

“Hey man, you okay?” the driver asked, glancing back. 

Jamal didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The only sound that escaped his throat was a ragged, desperate wheeze as he collapsed into the nearest seat. His world was shrinking—tightening like a noose around his neck. Someone shouted to call 911, but the words barely registered. All he could think about was that crushing weight in his chest, the fear twisting through him, and the overwhelming certainty that this was the end. 

The paramedics arrived, their voices calm, and steady, everything Jamal wasn’t. He lay on the stretcher, staring up at the bright, indifferent sky, still trying to breathe through the terror. “Am I… am I dying?” he choked out, his voice a shadow of itself. 

One of the paramedics leaned over him, shaking his head gently. “No, you’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack.” 

Jamal blinked, his mind spinning. A panic attack? That didn’t make sense. Panic attacks didn’t happen to people like him, not to men who were supposed to have it together. But nothing made sense anymore—not his car, his marriage, or the life that seemed to be crumbling around him. 

“It’s just your body’s way of responding to stress,” the paramedic continued, his voice measured. “It feels like everything’s out of control, but you’re going to be okay.” 

“Stress,” Jamal whispered, tasting the word. It felt so small compared to the chaos roaring inside him. He wasn’t just stressed—he was unraveling. “I’ve been… under a lot,” he admitted, his words heavy, like rocks in his throat. “My wife… she’s leaving. My kids, work… I don’t even know how to hold it all together anymore.” 

The paramedic nodded, his gaze understanding. “It’s a lot. And it’s okay to say that. You don’t have to handle everything on your own.” 

Jamal looked away, his chest still tight, but not like before. His mind drifted to his father’s voice, the way he’d always told him to be strong, to keep it together. Men don’t talk about this stuff, his dad would say. But his mom’s side—the white side—they talked about everything. Therapy, feelings, mental health. Jamal had grown up straddling two worlds: the stoic silence of his Black family and the open vulnerability of his white relatives. And here he was, caught between those two truths, unsure which one would save him from himself. 

“I don’t know how to talk about it,” Jamal muttered, more to himself than the paramedic. 

“You don’t have to know how,” the paramedic said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You just have to start.” 

And for the first time in years, Jamal felt something crack open inside him—something raw and vulnerable, like a dam ready to burst. He wasn’t okay. But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be.