Dear reader,

Usually you have to kick in a window or something to get a car alarm to go off. You have to run your bike into it or slash the tires. A quiet street full of empty cars shouldn’t erupt in panic when a gust of wind blows through. Car alarms aren’t designed to scream when a butterfly descends on the hood. If they did, the world would be a much noisier place. We wouldn’t even notice if one went off. But now when a car alarm goes off, it disrupts everything. Everyone’s head snaps to the direction of the sound. It’s disturbing. Cars should only go off when you hit the panic button. Having anxiety is like being the car that sounds when a leaf passes by. Every button is the panic button. Fear is there, a constant burden.

I’m not triggered by gusts of winds or butterflies. It’s a room. It’s sitting in a room where all is quiet. The room could be a classroom or church or even a car. It’s a place that’s tight. My knees hit the back of the chair in front of me. The air is dry. My throat sticks. It isn’t the quietness that makes me itch. I hate the buildup of sounds: sniffles, whispers, swishes. The sounds make me sweat. The worst part is when the silence erupts into loudness. When the bell rings or the meeting adjourns and simultaneously everyone stands up and bursts with energy and noise, I lose it. My feet move too slow. I can’t get out. People are blocking the doors. They walk too slow. They won’t let me out. I can’t breathe I can’t think I can’t move I can’t–

A panic attack can last fifteen minutes. They can be triggered in a second. It’s a space in time where thoughts create physical symptoms. The fear is like freezing water. It’s a place above the earth, above worldly, rational fear. Minute one. It feels like you’ve been sucked back into your own head. Vision goes blurry. Voices get uncomfortably loud, but you can’t make out the words. Minute three. The pressure builds up so high that a thumping rhythm starts in your temples. Minute five. No coming back. Your chest muscles pull like strings, taut around your lungs. It hurts to breathe. Minute seven. All you can hear is blended voices and a ringing sound above it all. Minute nine. Rock bottom. It’s when you realize that there are still people all around you. Judging. And that high pitched voice in your head screeches “IT’S TIME TO GET OUT EVERYONE’S WATCHING YOU NEED TO GO” relentlessly. That’s when you run if you can. Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes it’s too hard to breathe. It isn’t until minute ten that you realize you’ve been crying the whole time. Your fingers and feet feel fizzy, like your blood is a carbonated drink. The fear clenches you and won’t let go, so it’s best to just ride it out. When it’s over, irrationality succumbs to  reality. The fear secedes to embarrassment. Who was watching? What did they think? And then, minute fifteen: exhaustion.

Rational Me loves to think critically. She loves to analyze things and think outside the box. She loves to be outgoing and sings and dance and actually enjoy stuff. But Rational Me comes around less often than I’d like her to. She’s replaced by a sniveling, inconsolable child. A child who wakes up from a nightmare but is too afraid to call for her parents because the monster might not just be in the dream. She lets her thoughts become reality. She doesn’t enjoy things and she doesn’t put herself out there. She’s not shy; she’s terrified. She’s got redness under her eyes from not sleeping. Her nails are bitten down to stubs. She doesn't like to go out. She just wants people to leave her alone.

Anxiety is a heavy burden. Typing the word makes my face hot. I don’t like it. It seems too hard to overcome. But the burden is making me stronger. Every day that I wake up and feel the effects of anxiety and still get up is more control to me. It’s a little less to carry.

-Melanie