My Anxiety: A Timeline

I am twelve years old. I have spent the entire day with my best friend, Jessie. As we are settling down for bed in the living room of her townhouse, I remember the video she showed me earlier that day, and the feeling of uneasiness that has followed me ever since. We situate ourselves on the couches with numerous blankets and pillows, laughing about things only twelve-year olds find funny. 

Within minutes Jessie falls asleep, and as her snoring drifts over me in the dark, that video returns to my thoughts once again; the red monster that did not speak, the human heart rolling in the glitter, and the pie made of flesh. These characters are merely puppets, but a voice in my head assures me that they're real. They're real and they're here. Real and in this house. In that closet. They are here and Jessie is asleep and I am helpless. They are real and I am helpless. I begin to cry. Tears drip down my face as I stifle screams that will let the Monsters know where I am. My breathing is fast and shallow. I can only shudder and cry and sit alone in the dark. I am alone and I am helpless. This is my first panic attack. 

I am in eighth grade. I am sitting in this chair before a priest I do not recognize. He asks me what sins I have committed. I tell him I have been jealous of people. He asks why. I tell him I am envious of the way other kids make friends and speak without their throat closing up. He tells me God forgives me and gives me my penance: one Hail Mary, one Our Father, and one Glory Be. This is my first acknowledgement that something is wrong. 

I am in eleventh grade. After years of knowing nothing but self-hatred, and sweating in fear until my hands become slick, I tell my mom. She takes me by the hand and tells me that I will be okay. This is my first step towards healing. 

For the first time I can remember, I have been handed a tool I do not know how to use. I know my therapist is here to help me, but these Monsters still whisper in my ear that she does not believe me and that her smile and soft words are nothing but facades. I will not lie. It takes a list of do's and don'ts and a prescription to make me realize she is on my side. It takes me a long time to see my mouth as more than an empty cavern and these hands as more than tools of destruction. It takes repetition and it takes work. This is when the Monsters start to fade.

I am now in the twelfth grade. I have been on medication since November. I've run out of things to tell my therapist, so I don't visit her anymore, though I still have her number in my phone. At conferences, my language arts teacher tells my parents I am a wonderful public speaker. My laughter echoes in the hallways at school. I am finally able to recognize my strengths rather than only my flaws. I look in the mirror and see someone who is good and worthy of love. There are no Monsters in the closet. I am no longer helpless and alone. I have seen and felt how much emotional pain human can endure, and how much I am capable of. I am not cured, for doubt still sometimes echoes in my mind louder than it should. My story is not over, and I continue my journey toward becoming an even happier and healthier version of myself.

Author's Note

Hey guys! Thank you so much for checking this out! This piece is very personal to me, and your feedback means a lot to me. Again, thank you! I hope you have a great day!