I was anxious from a young age. Always ready too early, always checking the time and getting impatient. I remember when I felt like I'd jump out of my skin if we weren't at our destination at least 20 minutes early. I would will myself not to vomit in the backseat of my dad's car on the way to piano recitals. I used to be an easygoing kid, that's what my mom told me. I don't know when the imbalance decided it was time to kick in.

The dam broke when I was thirteen. For my seventh grade English class we had to keep a journal all year, like "Freedom Writers." For the most part, I mostly remember just complaining about everything, I took everything so personally. But one night, I sat alone in my room, listening to some sad music on my iPod, and I broke. I poured my heart out, everything I was keeping inside was scribbled onto six pages; friends with eating disorders, friends self-harming, friends in bad homes, friends coming out and me wondering if I could be gay too. I cared so much, I thought it was all my responsibility and their burdens became mine. My mom came up to my room and I shoved the notebook at her. I cried, face in my hands, the whole time she read it. When she was done, I begged her for medication. I remember how sad she looked. I didn't get any pills because I was afraid to go to therapy. That was the first time I ever asked for help with my mental health.

I don't know how I made it through the rest of that year, I have no memory of anything significant after that. Life moved on somehow. I started gaining weight, I got more apathetic. I never let any of my mental health issues show at school or with friends. I took it out on myself and my parents at home, I was miserable to be around. But high school was a fresh start, I banked on that being able to solve my problems. The change helped distract me for awhile, but toward the end my apathy and anxiousness was back. I pushed through it, I told myself this is just what high school does to you and that college will be better. I played the same game I did in middle school, fun in front of friends and crumble at home. Same story, new setting. I didn't ask for help. My anxiety would build until it knotted up my stomach, until I felt feverish and nauseous. Only then would I say I needed to stay home, and I would sleep all day to get rid of my racing thoughts.

College was better, but at this point I knew I couldn't just pretend nothing was wrong. I had gotten very good at calming myself down enough to where I could just shove the rest of the bad feelings right back down. My mom brought up medication while we were in the car together. "Don't I need to go to therapy for that first?" I asked. She said that's how it would have had to be before, since I was so young. She made an appointment for me that day.

I didn't want to fail the test to get medication, I was so nervous to fill out a short form that my hands were sweaty and my fingers trembled. That should have been enough of a clue that I'd get it. I told my doctor that From high school and on, my stresses have been normal things, but I would always react with too much feeling. And that was it, I had a bottle of Zoloft waiting for me at the pharmacy in twenty minutes.

It's been a great three years since then. I can handle things now, life feels doable in a way that it never did before. I'm still overly empathetic and a big crybaby, but nothing prevents me from living my life. There have been hiccups, needing to switch to Prozac, falling out of the schedule of taking it every day. But I know what it feels like to thrive instead of just survive now, and that keeps me steady.