Some time ago I sat in a classroom lonely, lost, and very much confused. It was my sixth-grade history class and I had just gone through my second panic attack, only then I had no idea what it was. All I knew was that I was either dying or I was going to die by my own hand. For a twelve-year-old year, I was shockingly aware of my own mortality. It was different then, my anxiety. It was stronger, more powerful, and so very dominant. It was a hostile takeover I no longer owned my body it did, I no longer had control of my emotions it did, I no longer had thoughts it did, and I no longer felt human but it sure as hell did. The anxiety wasn't the worst part, though no the hope was the real villain. It wasn't even really hope it was this hopeless hope, where I would think my anxiety was gone and I could finally have a life but then it would come back harder than last. The hope would toy with that idea where I could be safe again and then take it all away.

Things got better in high school, not normal but better. I learned the anxieties moves perfectly, I knew when it would strike hard and I knew when it would go to sleep. The problem was the anxiety learned my moves too, it learned when I would be most afraid when I was sad, and when I had those brief moments of happiness. It was also around this time that I had decided to get help. Telling people about it was not always liberating, in fact, there have been countless time when I have wanted to suck the words right back into myself and never let them see the sun. Once the words were out there though it was the same as carving them into stone. After the shock died down I got a therapist and meds but I still had no control over the anxiety. As years went on in high school it got easier more livable. I no longer fantasized death and I no longer feared the anxiety I just learned to live with it.

Now looking back on my life I see a lot of pain, suffering, and fear. However, when I look in the mirror I see strength, wars won, and acceptance in myself.