“A few weeks after the home invasion, I had my first panic attack. Back then, I didn’t know what a panic attack was, but looking back, that’s what it was. It would be the first of many.
It was a hot, sunny day at home, so I headed to the freezer for an ice block. That freezer was a big old thing downstairs in the laundry, which was filled with piles of clothes, cobwebs and God knows what else.
I didn’t like going down there, but I told myself to be brave, grabbed a Fairy Floss Zooper Dooper – the GOAT of ice blocks – and ripped open the wrapper with my teeth. But then I noticed a little red spot on my hand – a tiny mosquito bite.
Absolutely nothing to worry about, right? Wrong. As soon as I saw that mark, I tipped into a state of complete panic.
My heart started racing out of my chest and the walls felt like they were all spinning around me.
‘Mum!’ I screamed, collapsing to the ground, sobbing and gasping for air. I didn’t have a clue what was happening, but I knew I was about to die. Mum ran from the other end of the house. She looked terrified.
‘I’ve just been bitten by a poisonous spider and I’m going to die,’ I managed to tell her through tears and gasps. For the record, it was a tiny mozzie bite. But something in my brain had turned against me, telling me the mark was fatal and I believed it.

Mum could see it wasn’t anything to worry about, but that did nothing to calm me down. I was hyperventilating, sobbing and panicking. I’d lost the plot. Mum had no idea what was going on, but she rocked me as I screamed and struggled to breathe, telling me over and over, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’
Afterwards, I climbed into bed and stared at the wall for hours, wondering if I’d ever feel normal again. I wanted to go back to being the girl I’d been just a few weeks ago. I missed the lightness of who I used to be. Now I just felt scared all the time.
As part of the court case against the two men who held me at knifepoint, I had to go to a child psychologist so they could assess whether I’d suffered lasting effects. At one point, they asked me to draw a picture, and I drew a very detailed picture of people being stabbed and killed.
Talking about your problems wasn’t the sort of thing people did back in those days, but Mum could see I needed help and found a counsellor. I really wasn’t keen, but I went for a few weeks or so.
Weirdly, I don’t remember anything about those sessions. But one day, Mum picked me up afterwards and I was really angry. I hopped in the car and told her I was never going to the counsellor again. ‘You know what, Mum? I don’t want to talk about it ever again.’

I was sick of feeling scared and thinking about the home invasion. I’d decided it was time to get over it and move on, which was a nice idea, but I don’t think I ever did get over what happened.
Something deep inside me had changed. I wasn’t carefree any more. I was worried all the time and I was always ready to run or hide. The dark petrified me. I did not like loud noises, but I also didn’t like silence.
Eventually, the tangible memories of the incident faded into the background, but I was left with a lingering sense of unease with the world. I was anxious a lot and things that had never bothered me before really began to worry me.
I’d come up with a hypothetical situation about something bad that might happen and before long, it would blow up into the hugest, most catastrophic thought and keep me awake at night.
This pattern of fatalist thinking has continued throughout my life and while I didn’t realise it back then, I know now that what happened that day changed me. I’d discovered that bad things can and do happen.

These panic attacks struck me frequently and still do. The anxious feelings build and build inside me until my brain tricks my body into falling apart. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. My chest tightens, my breathing becomes irregular and panicked, and even my limbs feel like they’re not working.
I can see why people take themselves to hospital when they first experience a panic attack. In those terrifying moments, you really believe you’re dying.
Now I’m older, I’ve really recognised the trauma of that home invasion has never really gone away. I always lock the front door when I’m at home, I don’t like being alone at night and if I’m out in the evening, I walk to my car with my key between my fingers, ready for anyone who might be waiting to attack.
Lots of women do this, I know, but the difference for me is that I genuinely believe it’s going to happen. I know this because the worst did happen.”
If you’re struggling with your mental health, please call or text 1737 at any time to speak to a trained counsellor for free.