For years I have been living with a mental illness I did not know I possessed. For years I have struggled to live as a normal human being because I could never figure out why I felt the way I did. I never knew why I constantly felt exhausted, why I didn’t want to socialize with people, why I didn’t want to do anything but sit in the comforts of my bed, wallowing in self loathing.

Anxiety.

When most people hear the term anxiety, they just think of the word “scared.” They think of people having irrational fears that they should just “get over.” But that isn’t what anxiety is.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had so much trouble just being around large groups of people, talking in front of groups, sleeping, eating, and more. Everyday I wake up worrying about what I am going to look like, how people are going to view me. I spend hours laying in bed at night unable to fall asleep because “god dammit, why didn’t I say this? Why did I do that?” My brain is constantly telling me “you are so stupid, nobody likes you, you’re too ugly” etc.

Anxiety feels like everything and everyone is working against you, including yourself. ESPECIALLY yourself. It is like your whole body has begun to conspire against you while you were unconscious; you wake up unable to move or think straight. Your limbs feel weak, your breathing feels heavy, your head pounds, your heart palpitates, you simply just do not want to move. No, scratch that, you CAN’T move. Some mornings it simply takes a few minutes to arise and begin your day. Others? It can take hours to convince yourself you won’t shatter into a million pieces as soon as your foot hits the floor. It takes hours to regain composure and control over your body in order to face the day.

Anxiety is forcing yourself to appear outwardly happy and in control despite the torrential downpour behind your eyelids or the hurricane of emotions swelling in your chest, rising to your brain. No matter what, you can never let society know you are feeling anything beside 100%.... You may be on the brink of an episode, but you must smile. You must laugh. You must PRETEND.

They mustn’t know.

Anxiety is when you’re sitting in a lunchroom with your friends and all of a sudden your chest caves in, you can’t breathe, your heart races, your limbs begin shaking uncontrollably, your head aches, and all you can do is push around your food, pretending to eat even though you have lost all remnants of an appetite.

Anxiety is like hot wired fire alarms; once one alarm goes off, the entire system is blaring. Once one emotions rises, the rest come tumbling in. For years, you convince yourself you are okay and you don’t need help; you let yourself worsen for fear of being labeled “crazy.” Because that is how anxiety is viewed.

“Crazy.

Over emotional.

Weak.

Fake.

Acting.

Dramatic.”

ANXIETY.

MENTAL ILLNESS.

It is not something I am pretending so I can get attention. I do not WANT attention, but I NEED it. My brain thrives off of feeling accomplished or appreciated, yet no matter how many compliments I get, my brain still crashes and burns, taking my sanity with it. Why would I CHOOSE to live a life unfulfilled and heartbreaking? Why would I choose to constantly live in fear? Why would I choose to hate myself and close everyone out because “I’ll be damned if another person sees me weak”? Anxiety is not a choice. I’ve lived with it hidden for years; I finally got help, and I’ll be damned if I ever go back to the way things were before. I will not succumb to the disease; I will not allow my anxiety to take over and make me feel powerless again. I am not powerless; I am powerful.

So, hi. My name is Bree, and I am living with anxiety.

When I was twelve years old, I wanted to die. When I was twelve years old, I went to the park in the middle of spring with a winter scarf stuffed in the pocket of a coat I didn’t even need in the 70 degree weather of Iowa. When I was twelve years old, I climbed up the ladder of the monkey bars I had spent hours crossing during my childhood. When I was twelve years old, I tied that winter scarf to the bars and let my shaking hands wrap the scarf so tightly around my neck, I didn’t think it would ever come off; I fell. When I was twelve years old, my life flashed before my eyes; I failed to end it all. When I was twelve years old, I walked back home and nobody questioned why my body was trembling or why my neck was a violent shade of failure red; had somebody asked me, I might have said I wanted to die and never attempted again. When I was twelve years old, I wanted to die, and nobody said a word.

Perhaps if somebody had asked me why my face appeared pale and flustered, why it seemed there were tear stains among the bags underneath each eye, or why I was out of breath, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many years of my life hating myself. Had somebody cared for me when I existed in a makeshift world of “you’ll never survive,” “you’ll never love or be loved,” or “you’ll never be enough” maybe I wouldn’t find myself drenched in tears at 2 AM because those thoughts that rained on my 12 year old conscious have never truly left. If somebody had grabbed my hand as I passed block after block after block and asked me why, maybe, just maybe, I would have finally told somebody I was tired of living in a world revolving around the hatred of the body I was born into; maybe I would have been taught to love my body rather than rake a damn razor across it.

A year later, a man attempted to take my body for his own. His fingertips trailed up my prepubescent thighs as I was left wondering, “why is he touching me like my body is meant for his hands to grope?” I left him on my father’s couch and tried to hide myself in my room. I cried as he paced the hallway right outside my bedroom and held a knife so tightly my knuckles turned white as he entered. He walked closer and closer to me as I threatened to call for help, to call the police. His words echo across my mind to this day: “You can’t scare me. You can’t call them. I can do what I want. I’M in charge.” I threatened to call my father. The man finally left me. My cousin, FINALLY left me. I had to live with him until I finally had the courage to confide in my other cousin who in turn told her mother. My aunt became the woman who threatened to take me away from my dad if he didn’t kick the man out... that knife I clung so tightly soon became the only thing I trusted even when my house wasn’t haunted with his presence.

For years, I relied on a knife to carry me through my life. I relied on a knife to drown out the pain I felt over my familial struggles. When I could no longer bare living in a home filled with ghostly reminders of the past, my knife left daily streaks to remind me I was real, I was alive. When I was cast aside by family and friends, my knife became the only thing real to me. I was lost without it. I left my parents and moved in with my mother’s sister. My life went on but my closet was my sanctuary where my razors and my knife could be tucked away, never to be found by my aunt. It was in that house my reliance upon a blade was diminished, but it was in that house I was most dead inside. During those years in that household, was when I came to terms with every single wrong in my life and I wanted to die even more than my twelve year old self had.

When I was sixteen, I was taught my body would never be mine to hold; a man would always come around and take it for himself. When I was sixteen, my temple was invaded and I was never the same. My life spiraled into a black hole that sucked away every joyful memory or emotion I had ever experienced and replaced it with my dependence upon a man. A man would be the only reason for true happiness in my life because dammit, I must OBEY. I was sixteen, when I killed myself, when I allowed myself to be taken over by a man I did not know. He became the damn blade I had run from; I wanted to die.

I turned eighteen 43 days ago, and here I am. Breathing, smiling, LIVING. Here I am living without depending on another human being, without depending on a blade. Growing up, I wanted somebody to tell me I would be okay, I would survive. I AM ALIVE. I am thriving. Spring brings me nothing but happiness despite that hellish day six years ago. You see, I have learned the world cannot be blamed for my unhappiness or self hatred because how can you expect a world full of hostiles to establish love for you when you yourself cannot reciprocate that love for yourself or the world around you? At twelve, I did not know this. When I was twelve, I wanted to die, but nobody said a word.

I've wandered through the valley of death and somehow made it out alive. I've stumbled over the debris I've scattered throughout my hell bent life. I've scraped knees due to the fallen glass fragments from my iced over heart.

I cannot outgrow the depravity trailing behind me. Somehow, despite all of this, you have offered me a hand, a light in the depths of darkness I have succumbed to. You offered me peace and serenity when I was dripping with blood and falling even further from the world's depraved reality.

I didn't know what to do, so I reached. I reached my hand out until your fingertips brushed over the fragile flesh encompassing my worn out skeleton; I reached until the despair I'd been carrying on my shoulders disintegrated and left me able to stand once again.

You reached for me when I did not believe I'd ever be lifted again. You held on even with shards of hostility layering any nice things I had to say. You stayed and continued reaching even when I began to slip; you gripped harder and didn't let me fall into the glass covered despair you pulled me out of.

I didn't realize how much you meant to me until you were gone. I didn't realize I confided in you about everything. I didn't realize you supported me even when I couldn't support myself; you LOVED me when I couldn't give myself anything other than hate.

I didn't realize some friendships have a time limit, an hour glass, and once you run out of sand it's game over. I didn't realize how much I was hurting you because I was hurting myself. I didn't know how much my negativity and self-hate was affecting you, not until the day you didn't return to my side...

Confusion bottles up within the depths of my brain. I cannot come to terms with what I truly want. I cannot figure out what true happiness derives from? Is it you? Is it me? Is it us? What could it be?

I am indecisive and quite frankly a mess. My brain is constantly overworking itself with reappearing thoughts of sadness and being unsure of all things in life. Do I enter a relationship with you; you who brings me unending amounts of joy? Do I wait and see how things play out? How does one combat such confusion?

I try and try, but some things just do not leave you; some people just do not leave you. I try to expel these detrimental people from my life, but how do you expel someone from your veins? How do you purge yourself of a toxin if it has embedded itself in your blood cells and lines your lungs, living in every breath you take? How do you cleanse yourself without killing yourself?

People reside within you, memories live on forever. You cannot just uproot a memory and kick it out of your brain. Humans are cursed with the worst disease of all: overthinking. Over thinking makes it nearly impossible to say goodbye to others and mean it.

How do you move on when every beat of your heart is for someone else? How can I possibly give someone else a place in my heart when my heart is overrun by unbearable feelings for others who do not deserve my love? You cannot just decide to give that intimacy to another person; you love different kinds of people differently.

My heart is swelling with love I have been unable to give away. How do I strip my heart of this hurt, of this unforgiving love without bringing myself to the brink of death? I am dripping with unimaginable amounts of tenderness for people undeserving. How can I possibly possess so much endearment for others who do not want it or do not deserve it? And why am I not allowed to care for another who deserves affection more than any other person I’ve ever known?

Falling in love with your best friend isn't romantic. Falling in love with your best friend isn't "goals" or anything like that. Falling in love with your best friend means endless tears shed at night while you realize you'll never be the one they want. Every night you will go to bed, wishing your best friend all the happiness in the world knowing you'll never be the cause of it. They will always come to you about how their falling for the newest significant other or how perfect a date or conversation or phone call went. They will always ask you for advice about what to do or say for a current crush or how to keep them happy at the end of a fight.

Falling in love with your best friend means endless backup on your part without ever putting your personal feelings between the two of you. You will always be the one they go to for advice. You will always hold them tight as they cry to you when they get their hearts broken repeatedly. You will hold their hand when they are feeling down, lift them up when they have been beaten to a pulp, and always, ALWAYS remind them that they are more. You will always be by their side but not as a lover; you're simply the "best friend." You're the one all of their significant others will be jealous of or worried about, but they will always say, "don't worry about them. There's nothing between us, they're just a friend. We don't have a romantic relationship." And just like that, your heart will shatter all over.

Falling in love with your best friend means constant heartache. It means only wanting the absolute best for your best friend. It means you will do everything in your power to cheer them up through every heartbreak, give the best advice on how to keep the relationship thriving, and being available for late night talks about how perfect their life is going. Falling in love with your best friend isn't perfect; it's bitter; it's cold; it's heartbreaking.

As tears line my waterlines, I cannot help but allow them to spill over and drip 

down

down

down. 

Down to the depths with my friendships forged among Hell's cruelest beings. 

Down with the shipwreck my heart has been swallowed up in. 

Down with the boy who broke my heart when all I wanted was to make his whole.

Down with the girl who broke my heart even worse because, whats's that saying, friends can break your heart worse than lovers? 

Even as I sit here and write, I cannot help but want my presence to be filled with these special people who used to lift me 

up

up

up. 

Up when all I wanted was to curl into a ball and allow myself to be taken over by inner demons.

Up when the world as I knew it was crashing into shambles around me.

Up when the only thing I was capable of was crumbling to pieces with despair.

Up into dreamland, but they must have stayed up there because I can't seem to find them here in the real world anymore..

Your morals askew, your words short and sweet, your beliefs awry, you.

You are captivating, yet you and I differ in ways beyond beliefs. 

We shouldn't be together, but I want you. 

I want your arms to encircle my body at night, your lips to whisper my name, your breath to tickle the back of my neck as we say goodnight.  

I desire your presence in my life at all times, but you are not mine; you never will be.

Why do I do this to myself?