I spent ten minutes staring at a little white pill before I worked up the courage to put it on the back of my tongue and gulp down my water. I now sit here, waiting for it to enter my system as I stare at my white computer screen and watch black letter after black letter slowly fill the page. The tears keep falling from my eyes; I can tell because I feel them running down my face, making wet tracks down my cheeks.

I can't get enough oxygen into my lungs, and it hurts to breathe because my chest is so tight. My hands can't stop shaking. Actually, it's my entire body that's shaking uncontrollably. I know because my laptop is moving beneath my legs and my arms are glued to my sides as I try to type. I hear my TV, but it's like I'm in a tunnel, where it seems far away and echoes and not like it's only 10 feet from my bed.

I don't know why my mind is filled with chaos. I don't understand the point of having a brain if it can't work on command. I don't get why I just can't be normal. Sometimes, I just wish I was normal. I don't want to have to do this, to deal with these symptoms when my mind fails me.

I know that it's all in my head. I know because this is what the doctors tell me. I know that it's also real. I know because I'm a psychology major and this is what the textbooks say. Anxiety is an illness, one as real and as painful as any other. I know because I live it. I know that it exists. It may only exist within the smallest and darkest corner of my anxiety-ridden brain, but it's there. If it wasn't, why would I be feeling this?

I've been the girl who has left parties because I can't function like a normal college kid, feeling like I can't get out fast enough without clawing my way through the crowds and running like a mad woman.

I've been the student who has missed class because driving to school has caused temporary paralysis of my mind to function, leaving me to stare at the same speck on the ceiling until my breathing has returned to normal and my heart rate has steadied.

I've been the girlfriend who has had to cancel dates because just the idea of getting dressed to go out leaves me sitting on the bathroom floor in a puddle of sweat and nerves.

I've been the friend who has cancelled more plans than I've kept because I've spent too many days trying to keep everything wrapped up so tightly in such a manner to appear to be "normal," not wanting anyone to see through my facade or knowing that I'm too exhausted to keep up appearances.

But having anxiety is something that is supposed to be hush-hush. The second you mention the A-word, one of two things will happen. Either you will get eye rolls from people who believe that "anxiety" and "feeling anxious" are one of the same or you will get mouths formed in small "o"'s with wide eyes as people try to hide their shocked and slightly horrified expression.

It's like having anxiety makes me less of a real person and skews reality to where my illness is a veil, making it all the other person sees.

There are some days that I don't even get a tap on the shoulder from the unfriendly tenant that lives in the gray matter within the confines of my skull. Sometimes, I can function at full capacity, and I often wonder if this is how easy it is for the other half to live. I wish that I could live with the sense of carefree ease that I feel in these times.

Then there are other times where those same tenants will decide to throw a party and have all of their friends pay a visit. In these moments, the creeping feeling my anxiety brings will rapidly turn to emotional and physical strangulation and my world will go black.

Sometimes I can relive every second of an attack. Sometimes I remember bits and pieces here and there. Sometimes I can recall absolutely nothing but the blackness, searching and searching for clues and coming up empty-handed.

I've realized and dreadfully accepted that my life is filled with many, many "sometimes."

Taking my little white pill of temperance has become something that I'm ashamed of. It isn't something that I can help, but it's something that makes me weak. I'm weak tonight for giving into my anxiety and swallowing that pill instead of letting my anxiety swallow me up whole. Why? Strong people don't need assistance. They don't need a crutch. Right?

That's what your face tells me when I say I have anxiety. That's what professors think when I use anxiety as an "excuse." That's what friends tell me when I say I can't handle the mind-crushing, body-numbing interference that my anxiety causes. That's what the stigma of anxiety has led everyone to believe to the point where, in times like these, I do feel weak and I do feel less.

I know that tomorrow I'll wake up and I'll feel better. My eyes will be puffy and my throat will be sore, but the hand will be removed my neck allowing me to breathe deep breaths and I'll feel relief. I won't be flailing at the whims of the unknown panic I feel now throughout my entire body.

Anxiety poses a constant war I fight against myself every day. I'm still not sure what's easier: letting it win or beating it.

I share this with you not only to shine a light on a subject blanketed in so much darkness, but also to help others who struggle to find comfort by showing them they aren't alone.