I've been struggling with anxiety for the past 2 years or so. I don't mean the "normal" kind of anxiety where you get nervous every time something unnerving or exciting is happening, or about to happen. No, I mean the kind that is in my head, that is almost crippling. I mean the kind that I can barely control that causes me to avoid my friends and family. I mean the kind that makes me afraid to leave my house some days. The kind that causes me to have muscle aches almost daily, headaches, a tight chest, and numbing arms and legs. When I'm anxious, I don't just feel nervous, I feel like my body is breaking down and like I am going to die. And I've dealt with it in this severity ever since the Summer of 2014.

To keep from going too much into the story that I'm tired of telling, I will give a shorter version. I had my first panic attack at a concert in 2014. I didn't control my breathing well and began losing feeling in my legs, arms, and eventually could barely even open my mouth. I forgot the medical terminology for it, but basically I wasn't getting enough oxygen to my brain. I fell over on a fence screaming for help, praying, and screaming an excessive amount of profanities. Everyone else at the concert thought I had taken mushrooms or acid, and was just having a bad trip, so no one wanted to help. It took a couple minutes until my friend (who had gone to get me some water) came back and found me crying, screaming, and unable to do anything but roll back and forth. She poured water all over me, sat me up on the fence, and eventually calmed me down. Feeling came back into my arms and legs, and I no longer thought I was going to die. Someone who attended the concert happened to be an EMT, and to this day I am still thankful that he helped carry me to the medical tent while pouring his own water on my wrists and neck. An incident similar to this happened a month later, and I haven't been to a big concert ever since.

The events from those two concerts lead me to therapy, because every time I would get anxious, I would feel like I'm losing feelings in my arms and legs. Whether those feelings are real are not, I still have no idea. I ended up switching through about 3 therapists until I found one that was actually able to help. He ended up treating me with something called EMDR which is supposed to help the patient get over certain traumas. In my case, the trauma was helplessness and the thought that I was going to die at a concert. He helped me through certain things, but most days I still felt too anxious to function correctly. I disconnected myself and ended up missing a lot of things during my senior year of high school, all because I was afraid of having another panic attack. I became more introverted than I already was. Because of this, I asked my parents if I could start taking medication for my anxiety. They didn't like the idea (because for some reason they have something against medications), but they allowed me to go to the doctor to get his opinion on the matter. I told the doctor about what happened and how I feel most days. He prescribed me Xanax to be used whenever I needed it. Which, honestly was not too often, I only took them the first month until therapy really started helping me. But what made me anxiety worse was me thinking about how my family looked down on me for having to take it. Some days (even to this day) I wonder if they even think my anxiety is a big deal. They sure don't treat it like it is. Part of me hated myself for having to take the medicine, and part of me just wanted to feel better. I still have a bottle which I call the "open in case of actual panic attack" bottle.

During June of 2015, I remember that being one of the worst months because I can recall that I barely ever left my house. I was afraid I would have a panic attack and no one would be around to help me. I still get anxious when taking certain trips, going to certain events, and during various other random things. I hate it, it hinders me far too much, and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. And it wasn't until my 2nd semester in college that I found a counselor who was able to help me the most. I had not taken any medicine for a while, and she was able to help me in ways I never could have imagined. I am thankful for her, and the methods she helped me place into my daily life. Our last session was in March of 2016, and since then I have not had one panic attack. It was like my anxiety had gone dormant for a little while, which was fine with me. However, these past 2 weeks have not been good to me, and I am thinking of going back to therapy because for some reason, I am starting to have my anxiety hinder my regular, daily activities.

I don't tell you all of this so you can feel sorry for me. I tell you all this because I believe in being open about our struggles. We are all people and we all have our crosses to bear. I always think it's better if we bear them together, as friends, family, brothers, and sisters. Mental issues need to be discussed more, and anxiety and depression need to be treated for what they really are: illnesses. Be honest, be open, be accepting. Just because you can't see what is wrong with someone, doesn't mean nothing is. Screw the stigma surrounding mental illness. Screw the ones who don't believe it's a real thing. Speak. Converse. Educate. Share your story. And be strong.
I believe in you.