First and foremost, this piece was written during an anxiety attack, and edited to make more sense afterwards. None of the following is hypothetical. I'm aware of how gruesome it may be to read, but it was written with the intention to raise awareness of what people like me go through nearly every day.

Also, note that anxiety and its affects differ from person to person, and what I may have gone through may not be the same for someone else. I suffer from generalized anxiety, which stemmed from social anxiety. The specific cause of the below attack was unknown; but for another person, it may be 100 percent predictable, and the cause completely evident.

Finally, please don't read this if you're a sufferer of anxiety, or if you believe that reading about another person's anxiety may trigger you or induce stress in any way. The following was written to inform, as well as to make some feel like they are less alone in this battle. My intentions were not, in any way, harmful.

My hands are shaking, my head is throbbing. I'm gonna vomit. I have tunnel vision, and I have blurred vision because I'm crying, and because of my eyes are blurry and watery, I can't see. My heart is beating seemingly as far as it can out of my chest, but it feels so restricted; like my chest is a set of tracks that are being trampled by a 200 thousand pound vehicle. My breathing is uneven. I can't breathe, really.

I'm in public. I have nowhere else to go, to hide, to "let it all out." My legs are shaking too hard to even get up and walk to the bathroom, to hide in a stall until this passes. I'm stuck at this desk in the library, trying not to sob, hoping nobody notices.

Everyone notices, though. They can see I'm in pain. They can see my eyes, glossed over from the stress and the tears and the strain. They're judging me. They're judging me so hard. I know it.

I'm missing class, right now, because I can't handle going anywhere but here. I'll die if I do. I know I won't literally die, but I feel like I'll die. I can't do it. Spanish can wait. I still remember enough from high school to let this one lecture go. But do I? What if this is the cause of my downfall? I'm going to fail Spanish because I'm a lunatic and can't handle sitting in class right now. I hate myself. I'm going to fail out of school. That's it.

You're probably wondering: if I'm so shaky, how am I even writing? I have no idea, my hands hurt, they're moving from side-to-side, they're jittery, this is almost illegible. I couldn't possible type, right now. There's no way.

Why am I having an anxiety attack, right here, right now? I have no clue.

That's the fun part about being anxious. I don't know when this is gonna stop. I don't even know how it started. I never know when sheer terror is going to take over my entire body, when it's going to hit me like a truck. I'm living in constant fear of when my next episode is going to happen.

Episode... that's a word used for crazy people.

I'm fucking crazy. I know I'm not normal. I know I'm insane. Does acknowledging my issues make me any more normal? I wish. Does being a psycho make me any less human? Kind of. People treat you like you're nothing once they realize you're not like them; you're not normal. I'm like a wild animal, rather than a human. I don't deserve love, I don't deserve human rights, I don't deserve anything.

My friends hate me. They have to. I seclude myself from plans with anyone because I'm horrified that I'll have an anxiety attack while I'm with them. I've skipped out on parties because I can't handle to be around so many people who hate me. I can't stand to be around so many people. Nobody can see me like this. I've never even really told any of my friends, directly, that this is what I'm going through. Maybe that's why they hate me. They know I'm crazy: they just don't know why I'm crazy. I hate myself.

I rarely see anyone, outside of classes and work and whatever, except my boyfriend. But he doesn't even understand this. I wish he did. I try to help him understand it. I can't.

How can I help him understand this if I don't even understand this? Why am I like this? Why is he with me? He hates me. He has to. He's with me out of pity. He's with me because he feels an obligation to be with me, after almost six years, because I'm a mess and he's been with me for this long and that's it. He's stuck with me. He's watched me grow out of a horrible mental state, he spent about a year or two with "normal" me, and now I'm and right back into a worse position than I've ever been in before. He's stuck. I'm stuck.

I'm so sorry.

I'm so, so sorry, Tim. I'm so sorry you have to deal with me, day in and day out. With your psychotic girlfriend. With your gross, ugly, annoying, absolutely mental girlfriend. I'm sorry.

It's no wonder everybody hates me.

But, why does everybody hate me?

Why doesn't anybody understand? Why am I so incredibly alone? I'm a mess; a disgrace. I'm not normal. I'm a psycho. I can't stop shaking. Why can't I just be normal? Why can't I just be a regular college student who handles their issues without having a complete and utter mental breakdown? Why do I break down, nearly every damn day, without even knowing why? Why me? Why do I have to deal with this, and not the person sitting in that desk over there? Why can't I be more like her? She looks normal.

I'm such a piece of shit. Why am I constantly depressive and incredibly anxious and so obsessed with perfection and picking myself apart and being so meticulous about everything and getting everything done as quickly as possible and isolating myself from everybody and everything I've ever loved? What is wrong with me?