The day I hit rock bottom was a weekday. I finally woke up after hitting the snooze button every ten minutes… consecutively… for an hour. I opened my eyes and thought to myself, “If I can manage to get ready in five minutes, I will only be fifteen minutes late for work”. But I could not get my legs and arms to move as quickly as my mind. Like anvils weighing me down, I couldn’t get my legs to move at all. In fact, I was nearly catatonic. That day, my husband showered me, dressed me, and drove me to work. I didn’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed about that. At work, I couldn’t explain that for weeks, I had suddenly began experiencing panic attacks in social situations. The way I couldn’t explain or my tardiness that day. Or, worse yet, I couldn’t explain that the reason I looked like I had been hit by a Mack truck was because I had been dressed by a boy. That was the day I resolved to seek medical attention. The diagnosis: stress.