Inside Me

My head rests along the cold glass of the car window. I watch as the trees pass and the brick building of teenage misery looms closer. My ears are safety tucked under a pair of bulky headphones. In my sweaty palms rests my phone as I squeeze it just a little too tight

My dad is next to me in the driver’s seat. He’s mumbling something like ‘good luck on your midterms’. I don’t know. I prefer to drown out the outside world.

She’s behind me. Shaky hands crept along my head rest as she pulls up from behind. I can see her head in the rear view mirror. No face, just the big blocky letters spelling out ‘anxiety’. What a familiar sight.

“Did you remember your calculator?” She inquires.

You mean the graphing calculator that rarely leaves my bag? I remark inside my head.

We roll up to the drop off zone. It’s too late to turn back.

“What if you forgot it at home?” She says.

My hands scrambled for my backpack. I sigh in relief. My dad says something about it meant to be a joke. I don’t hear his exact words but shoot him a glare.

“What if you forgot your formula sheet?” She asks.

I reach for my bag again. It’s right beside the calculator in the middle pocket.

Before she can say anything else, it’s my turn to get out and I hustle through the stinging, cold air to school.

As I brush pass people in the hall, I make eye contact with their thin, empty, or non-existent bags. I hunched my full, heavy, backpack over my shoulder and keep waking.

“You’re going to have terrible back problems when you’re older,” Anxiety whispers behind me.

Before the first exam starts, I go up to my teacher. “Umm, I have a question about the study guide. There were two answers on the same question that were the same and both correct.”

“Did you get one of them?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Then you’ll be fine.” He moves away to address the rest of the class. “Alright, we’ll start in two minutes…”

I glimpse as his face as he walks away. He looks tired. Maybe because it’s 7:30 in the morning and the last day of midterms or…

Another body appears next to me. “He’s tired with dealing with your annoying questions.”

I don’t even bother to turn around and read the letters in their face. Such a dry, cold ambulance. Depression.

“You should just shut up and stop annoying everyone,” they said.

I lower my head and focus on the thick booklet in front of it.

“He probably hates you for all the annoying questions you ask.”

“No he doesn’t!” Someone else appears beside me. The words ‘self-love’ are written in cursive letters on her face. Her muscles are slightly bulkier than last time I saw her. Confidence is cradled in her arms like the infant it is. “You’re being melodramatic!” She claims. “He doesn’t hate you! You are amazing! And sweet! And kind! How can anyone hate you?”

Anxiety grabs my hand and starts to violently shake it as they stare at the midterm. I clamp my nails downs into their flesh and they yelp and release. My nails then clamp down into my own flesh. I bleed. They don’t.

“Good luck getting recommendation letters for college,” Depression says.

“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to slap you.” Self-love raises a hand as a threat.

I shove the headphones back over my ears, turn the music up, and drown out their voices. I take a deep breath and flip the first page. I tightly grasp my pencil with a sweaty hand. Let’s do this.

Bonus:

The moment I get home, I toss my backpack on the kitchen counter. Depression and Anxiety creep behind me. From the living room, I hear the clicking of paws against the hardwood floor. My dog lifts his slobbery head and licks my hand as he encircles me.

“Hey, baby!” I say in a high pitch.

Anxiety and Depression both shriek and clamber on top of the kitchen counter. I pick up the pug and kiss her forehead. “Come on, sweetie,” I say with a side glance and devious smirk at the cowering emotions. “Let’s go upstairs.”