8:08pm
Ok, I have a confession to make. I secretly, well I guess it’s not a secret anymore, really want someone to read my blog. Even if it’s just one person. I don’t exactly know why, but I’m assuming it has something to do with some sort of validation. The idea that there is someone out there that cares enough to read about my life and thoughts excites me. It would give me hope that all these emotions and feelings that I have inside have a purpose. That there is a reason to write all of this down. I guess deep down, I want to know that there’s a reason that I’ve been through all that I’ve been through, and I want to help someone who may be going through something similar. Now that I’m reading that sentence, I’m guessing there are a lot of people out there that think that. It’s a big world, and I’m just one person. Do I matter?
Oh my. How that question has haunted me since I was about twelve years old. I will always remember my first anxiety attack. I was in fifth grade, and my teacher had us students reading aloud. The idea was you read a paragraph, and then you pick someone to read the next one. Please note: I was not popular in any sense of the word at this point in my life. In fact, this is when girls started to bully and pick on me. But that’s a story for another post. So, for this exercise you WANTED to be picked to read. It meant that you were liked. In general, the girls chose girls, and the boys chose boys. Maybe cooties still existed at this point. Well anyways, I was the last girl chosen to read, so I had no choice but to pick a boy to read next. Remember, who you picked to read was such a big deal, and since I could pick ANY boy, I knew that the popular girls were going to have fun talking about this later.
Well, I froze. I finished my paragraph and just sat there. My teacher, who looked like a rat, kept telling me to pick someone. “Pick someone.” “Seriously, just pick any boy, none of them have read yet.” “Are you listening to me?” “Pick someone, anyone.” “Look at the boy sitting in front of you and say his name.” “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Then he came over to my desk and literally pointed at the boy sitting in front of me. “What is his name? Just say it! It’s not that hard. You’re holding up our lesson. Just say his name!”
Of course I knew the boy’s name, but all I could hear was his taunting tone and the giggles coming from the rest of my classmates. My chest tightened, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I had never felt this feeling before. Every breath required all of my strength. My eyes were blurry with tears, and my throat was too dry to even think about saying a word. I tuned out my nagging teacher as I focused on each agonizing breath, even though it felt like there were razors in my lungs. I’m not exactly sure how long this went on for, but it certainly felt like an eternity. Eventually, I was able to croak out “Tom” to which my teacher replied, “now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He had no idea.
I’m not the best writer, and please remember that this is just a journal entry, so I’m not putting a ton of effort into making the details paint the perfect picture. But I hope you can understand how traumatic this unknown and embarrassing experience was for a young adolescent girl.
When I think about my years of depression and anxiety, I would say it was in that moment that I knew something was really wrong. That I wasn’t just “sad” and things would just pass with time. I’ve obviously had a countless number of anxiety attacks since then, some of them rather severe. But if you were to ask me to pick the “worst” attack I’ve ever had, I would have to say it was my first one in fifth grade. Triggered by my teacher, no less. This teacher turned out to by my first real serious bully, but again, I will get back to that at another time.
Anxiety attacks suck, and if you’ve never had one, you will never truly know how bad they can be. I honestly can’t even find the words to describe some of them. Especially the ones that occur for no apparent reason. In some ways, those are worse than ones that are triggered by a traumatic event. Sometimes, anyway. But if you are someone who suffers from anxiety attacks, just remember you are definitely not alone. I know how much they suck, and I know the helpless feeling they give you. I still haven’t pinpointed exactly why, but for some reason, people tend to feel better knowing they aren’t alone feeling what they are feeling.
I’m going to get deep for a second… I know you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. But I promise you, that whatever it is you are feeling, you are NOT alone. No one should ever have to feel as though they are, or that no one understands them. I’ve been through so much, and I’m still here. I’m proof that surviving is an option.
To remembering better days.
With love to every human,
Lizzie
Nobody Likes Bushes 