Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi. If I did, I'd be writing scripts, not fanfiction.

Authors Note: I, like Paige, suffer from panic attacks. While I feel that Degrassi did its best trying to explain the issue, they left out details that would make light of the situation or confusing for someone with such attacks to understand. This is my attempt at filling in what Degrassi left out and helping viewers better understand the severity of panic disorder. I hope this enlightens and moves you.

Your hands produce a clammy sweat which you rub on your jeans to get away. A static fuzz swirls in your cerebrum and you know its coming. You smile at the people looking at you and excuse yourself. In one swift movement you close and lock the bathroom door, blinking excessively to prevent the inevitable that you know is coming.

You grip the bathroom sink and stare at your face, your face which by the moment becomes harder to compose in a neutral state. Your face wants to slip into wail, your jaw wants to drop and your eyes want to blur with tears. But you don't let it, you grip the edge of the sink harder and use every muscle in your face to stay neutral.

But you can't stay neutral, you succumb. Your eyes fill with tears, your vision blurs, your throat hurts, your mouth runs dry. Not wanting everyone to hear you grab a near by towel, roll it in a ball and bite it. Your silent cry pours into pretty patterned terry cloth, mascara filled tears alongside twisting green vines. Watery black blotches fall on top of intertwined vines and become flowers, dark, cynical, anxiety produced blooms.

You back yourself up against the wall and slide your back down the cold tile into and into upright seating position, pulling your knees to your chest. You allow your head to bang against the wall quietly as you try to pull yourself together, to regain the composure you never truly had in the first place.

The knock of a worried roommate hits the bathroom door after she realizes you've been gone for twenty minutes. When you don't respond, she pulls the butter knife from the top ledge of the door and lets herself in.

She's greeted by you on the bathroom floor, knees to chest with a towel in your mouth and is immediately concerned. She's not stupid, she knows what's happening, she's seen it before. She tries to talk to you, to convince you that she understands, that she does this too. She doesn't.

You don't acknowledge her; you still hug your knees and dig your fingernails into your arms. You feel so embarrassed to have her witness you in this state, but you can't control yourself; you're at your most vulnerable point. And you hate it.

Being vulnerable scares you. Being vulnerable makes you feel sick. You want nothing more to put up your shield and not let the world in. But at this point, at your breaking point, you can't help but be vulnerable. You can't control it, she can't control it. The whole situation is controlled by a power you have no effect over; you can't raise your own serotonin levels and prevent this.

It's a panic attack. It's a cry. It's a scream. It's a set of fingernails digging into your arm. It's a t-shirt wet from tears. It's a towel in your mouth. It's a saddened frown of a parent. It's a concerned look from a friend. It's a snap snap snap of a hair tie against your wrist.

It's your life, and it's how it's always going to be.

Authors Note: Read and Review please.