As the leaves are changing from a bright green to a crisp red, I walk to the end of the third-floor hallway, and my history teacher quickly puts his arm up as he says my name, in efforts to grasp my full attention. I turn my back and refocus my attention towards him. I sit in the low to the floor, blue chair directly across from his desk for approximately six minutes. I am very aware of my body in these short moments. I feel every itch on my face and hands. Knowing I have a busy schedule to attend to, he gets to the point fast. He asks me, “Hannah, do you think if you had some sort of fidget to play with during class, you wouldn’t pick your face as much.” Tears fill my eyes quicker than ever before. I take my time with my word choice and reply softly, “Maybe, but it's an anxiety thing, and it’s been this way most of my life.” My cheeks are ruby red, full of embarrassment. You can tell he feels bad for asking when a singular tear manages to escape my eye, but I know he means well. In just under six minutes, I am able to go back in time to my ten-year-old self sitting in that dim room on Central Park West with the old lady smell. 

After only forty minutes of sitting in this new, intimidating space with this new, intimidating woman, she pointed her wrinkly hand at me and said I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I walked into the elevator with my mom’s fingers in my left hand and a new book in my right. The baby blue cover page read OCD for kids, with a smiling girl and boy. I only went to this therapist for six months, but every time I walked in, my knuckles were twisted in every direction by the opposite hand. I had been dealing with this diagnosis for two years when my soccer coach pulled my parents and me aside after a Sunday game. He asked our wide eyes, “how come Hannah fidgets with her fingers every time she's on the field?” I will never be able to forget the image of my mom and dad looking down at me, expecting me to have already replied to the question. Under my breath, I responded with the answer, “it calms my nerves.”

In September of 2018, I entered a new office space that would turn out to be my most helpful tool. I met a helping hand, Jake. I giggled at Jake’s long brown beard when I shook his dry, callused hand. On that first nerve-wracking day, I sat down on his green couch. This newfound sense of comfort was what the past therapists lacked for me. Jake opened a window and told me to breathe in the cool September air. Five years later, whenever I feel that nervous finger fidgeting coming on, I remind myself of that September fragrance, take a deep breath and focus on the moment in front of me. Sitting across from that whiteboard with a diagram of thoughts, feelings, and behaviors made me feel a little less out of place. Therapy gave me a toolbox of coping skills and gave my anxiety a diagnosis. Putting a name to the issue made that twelve, ten, and eight-year-old feel a little less fearful. 

For most of my time spent in therapy, I thought it was a waste of time and money. Handing that old lady with the rat’s nest of hair a stack of cash at her reception desk after sitting with my legs crossed and my mouth shut for an hour justified all those feelings. My mom would sit in the fluorescently lit waiting room, computer in lap, waiting to take the cash out of her purse for a woman I had no interest in telling the truth to. Every other Tuesday, I would tell her what she wanted to hear, “I did better this week, I listened to what you told me to do, and it miraculously cured all my worries.” It was hard to believe she wanted to help. She didn't know anything about me. There was a big shift in my head when I found someone who wanted to help and watch me progress while the other was waiting for the awkwardly silent session to end so she could collect her earnings. A cash grab wasn’t going to heal my mind and body. I needed someone rooting for me to learn, grow, and let go. 

After two years on that green couch with my friend Jake, he made a meeting with me to announce his departure from the Child Mind Institute. This new friend with the long brown beard became a familiar face, and now that I was comfortable telling the truth, he was leaving to work at Mount Sinai. Even with his door shut, my anxiety still failed to go away with his exit. Sitting on that couch, the joints in my fingers are being cracked every which way. I am doing everything to escape this moment. A few months passed when the isolation of Spring 2020 began, and Jake had been long gone. Now I was stuck with a curly-haired woman named Emma. Along with the new therapist came new struggles of sitting alone in my room with my thoughts for what, in the moment, felt never-ending. Emma had brown, round-lensed glasses and a painting of a rural landscape behind her zoom screen. Our meetings were short, and I don’t remember a singular time I paid attention. The same questions were asked repeatedly, “Hannah, how will you approach the issue when it comes up?” The same answer came out of my mouth repeatedly, “I don't know, breathing, I guess.” After Emma and that frustrating time full of uncertainty, I let go of therapy. I decided I had enough coping skills in my back pocket, and if an issue arose, I could solve it independently. But sometimes, I can forget to take that breath.

When I was eight years old, and my dad first noticed the nervous tick destroying my cuticles and knuckles, I never thought it would follow me into my sophomore year. But there I was in January, telling my fourth English teacher of the year that I am not just bored, staring down and picking in his class, but I have dermatillomania, a combination of my diagnoses of anxiety and OCD. At least here I am, able to share my habit without shame, writing a three-page essay about the small moments of anxiety that have accompanied me throughout my everyday life like a bug on my back.

My anxiety is a stuffy nose. Waking up and going to sleep with thoughts and fears clogging my nostril. By filling my life with love and support, my nose has begun to clear. Even if my nail beds and knuckles have been destroyed, my mind has begun its uphill healing process. That breath of September air has and will only get easier.