The synthetic light was too bright and the humming of the AC was too loud. It was suffocating and I couldn't breathe. All I could think about was to stay calm and that I’m now. I’m home, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not in the Dells anymore, I’m at home with mom, the dogs, and the cats, I’m okay. I wasn’t okay, I could feel my heart beating in my chest and my head pulsing. The feeling of the scratchy carpet was too much but I couldn’t move. I felt sick, I felt like throwing up but I couldn’t, I was too scared to and there was nothing in me to throw up. I haven’t eaten since that morning and it was almost seven o’clock at night. Everything around me felt like it was too much, the walls around me felt like they were closing in on me as I sat, shaking and near tears, in the bathroom doorway. This is what I was scared of, this is what I was talking to my therapist about for the past two weeks. I was scared of this very situation. I was scared of having an anxiety attack that would send me home from vacation and here I am, nearing an anxiety attack after having to go home with my mom because I couldn’t keep myself together for four days.
I let out a choked out sob and started wailing, crying that I’m scared and don’t know what to do. I could hear my mom’s annoyed voice from upstairs, she’s tired of my anxiety, she’s tired of my crying. I can hardly make out what she’s trying to tell me, she wanted me to breathe and drink some water, saying that if I did so, I’d feel better. I tried. I tried to drink some water. I cupped my hand and let the water from the bathroom fill them. Walking down the stairs to the fridge was too much. I felt like too much and not enough was going on around me. I tried to sip the water slowly, but it tasted off, stale and unpleasant. I reached for the lights, turning them off but as soon as they were it felt too dark. I cried harder. My stomach hurt and my mind was a mess, I couldn’t make heads or tails out of anything. I felt alone and like I couldn’t go to others for help. I was sure mom and dad were mad at me for ruining vacation, it was a suffocating feeling and I didn’t want to burden them any further with my current situation. 

My wailing was echoing through the house, I’m sure, scaring the dogs and startling the cats. I couldn’t keep myself together, even now that I’m home. I’m home. I’m home. I’m home. I’m fine. I should be calm. It’s fine. I didn’t ruin vacation.... It’s not fine. I’m not calm. I’m not fine. I did ruin vacation. I’m home. I’m home. I’m home. I’m home because I couldn’t keep it together. I couldn’t keep my mind together, it was falling apart like papers scattering in the wind. Crumbling like a small flower being stepped on. I wasn’t strong enough to handle four days away from home.

I’ve always been told that I just need to breathe and stay calm, that everyone gets nervous and I’m just overreacting. Anxiety attack after anxiety attack, my parents refused to believe it was that bad. They saw me break down and cry and thought that it would fix itself by September, that going away from home and out of my comfort zone would help it. Maybe it would have if I stayed a few more days. Though Mark and my therapist knew this wasn’t going to fix itself, they saw it was getting worse, they saw I had trouble functioning during the day. Mark would see how I’d shut myself in my room and sleep away the rain just to avoid another attack. He’s watched both our brother and me struggle with anxiety, he’s seen from us that it can be mentally and emotionally draining. He understood that this was no small issue. I knew that I’d only stay together for so long, but my parents believed otherwise. They only agreed to take me home because they didn’t want me in a ward. They only agreed to help me after seeing me in pain and a mess for four months. Meds don’t fix everything, they can’t fix everything, but my anxiety made it hard for me. I couldn’t be in a car without feeling sick, I couldn’t think about driving without starting to shut down. The idea of it scared me, it caused me so much pain. But it didn’t last long, it jumped from thing to thing. It made me scared of my grades, scared that my friends have forgotten me, scared of everything and nothing all at once. This wasn’t a normal feeling, this wasn’t something that just breathing would help. Anyone with a mental illness understands that being calm or happy isn’t always an option, especially when you can’t handle it. You can’t just cheer up and put a smile on your face when you feel lost and upset, you can’t just calm down when you’re filled with fear and dread. My mental illness, my anxiety, is not something that will just go away over time. My anxiety is not me overreacting, nor will it just fix itself.

My memory is a blur of what all happened, I remember the tears, I remember the confusion and fear. I remember being unable to eat any sort of meal for days after words. My body and mind was tired and felt sluggish, all of the fear and confusion of that night lingering. It served as a wake up call, though I wish it didn’t. I wish my mom did something sooner, I wish dad saw it was bad. That night, all I could remember was laying down and drifting to sleep, focusing on the lack of color, focusing on a feeling of floating instead of the thoughts that caused my mind to rampage, that put me in a state of dread.

Maybe had I stayed longer, it would have been better, but being there was tiring. I wasn’t ready and pushed me to a breaking point. It’s become a learning experience for both my parents and I. I hope and pray they don’t treat my little brother like this if he ever shows signs of anxiety like this. From this, I’ve had to learn what to do to avoid triggering another anxiety attack, whether that means avoiding certain foods, certain clothes, or even just certain songs. I’ve had to learn that my anxiety is at a place where even just a walk with my dogs could trigger it if I’m not careful. My parents have become more understanding of it in the long run, yet they still cannot grasp certain things and it brings me stress on days where I’ve been unable to pull myself together. It pains me when my parents are surprised that my brother is my support, that he’s the one who’s helped me the most these past four months. I’m getting better, I really am, yet there’s still some time before my life will be somewhat normal and I’ll learn to live with my anxiety during that time. I’ve been able to feel when one’s starting to rise and deal with it in a more healthy way than breaking down. I’ve learned how to cope with them in the midst of a storm. I've been able to regain some of my appetite, long for what I miss out on. There are days where these thoughts still swim and a breakdown is the result, but it’s become easier to bounce back from. It’s become easier to get myself together. My anxiety has been an obstacle for me and this hurdle will still exist, but I’m learning to live. Day by day, I am adapting.