Life with anxiety.

 

                When I was in eighth grade, one of my best friends Claire had a seizure in class. I can’t remember everything, but I do remember the date. The time. The color of both our shirts. I remember  the way her body went every which direction. I remember not being able to function, being so confused, that I started laughing. I remember passing out. For some reason, I was the only one that reacted. Sure people made comments while it was happening. I can still hear people being shocked in disbelief or saying oh god, but I was the only one that ran out of the room and passed out. To this day I still wonder why nobody else but me did.

                When got out of the room, I saw black for a while. I wasn’t fully unconscious yet. I kept screaming “I can’t see, I can’t hear, I don’t know what’s going on!” That was the first time I ever really got scared about being unconscious. To this day, it’s still my biggest fear. Not being able to control your body, not being able to know what’s happening to you or what’s going to happen is deathly frightening to me. Not being able to use my senses was terrifying.  Eventually I found myself in the nurse. Eventually I regained my sight and hearing back. I was surprised to see Claire up and going. She quickly came up to me and I got scared. I told her to go away, but she gave me a hug and said she was sorry. She looked really hurt, and I could tell she was going to cry, but every time I looked at her, all I could see was her having a seizure. And that scared me. Claire was a really good friend and I loved her in that sense that I would do anything for her. That’s probably why it made seeing her hurt that much more difficult.

                I went home early that day. Surprisingly she stayed in school. Everyone just said I was overreacting. That I should get over it. It was clear Claire had, so I should too. The next day in school, I couldn’t stay in my seat for my than two minutes before I walked out. I went to the nurse’s office and asked to go home. That was the first of the twenty four days I asked to go home early. I’d try day after day to stay in class, but Id always crack a few minutes after first period. Teachers got annoyed quickly, my classmates started to judge me, and it seemed like even the social workers ran out of ways to help. Everyone in school just made me feel worst. They either assumed I was pulling the panic attacks just to get out class or just to get attention. I am not positive but its hard to fake a panic attack. It’s hard to make yourself purposely pale, with no light in your eyes, and the shortness of breath to match. But people always want to see the worst in others.

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