I won't drag you down with me

3. Chased by a baby koala

It had started when I was nine and, since then, it had never stopped.

Sometimes I tried to convince myself that a lot of people went through the same thing, that I was probably making a big deal out of it and that I could resist it - or better: control it.

But then at night, when everyone was sleeping and I was alone with myself, in a bed that felt way too small for someone like me, I knew that I just wanted to believe I could control it, and that I wasn't being controlled by it.

I was so desperate to get rid of it that I would be in bed, my back against the headboard, eyes closed and lips clenched, pressing my right hand on my chest and begging for it to stop in the quietness of the room.

There were nights where I could keep it under control, breathing in and out for a couple of hours before being able to fall asleep and get away from the mess in my head.

There were also nights, however, where no matter what I did, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I couldn't fight against the thoughts in my mind trying to crawl their way along the corridors of my brain.

All I could do was wait and breathe and wait and beg for it to stop.

And tonight was one of those nights.

When I was little, I would pace back and forth around my room over and over again, until my heart had slowed down, my hands had ceased shaking, and the buzzing in my head had ended.

But it had stopped working after a couple of years. So I resigned to another sleepless night, got out of my bed and wore my slippers. I folded my blanket and placed it on the edge of my bed. Once I'd made sure I hadn't woken up my roommate, I got out of the room and slowly closed the door behind me.

It was freezing in the hallway. I made my way to the common room, trying to not think about the crippling pain in my chest.

The room, which was usually semi-full, was empty. The lights were turned off, and the only thing that illuminated the area was the TV, positioned in front of the worn couch, silently playing a rerun of Friends in the stillness of the room.

I heard footsteps approaching me from behind and turned around to see Mary, walking up to me with an understanding expression.

I smiled at her - at least, I tried to - but it was like my body wasn't connected to my brain anymore. The only thing I wanted to do was cry and yet I stood there, doing my best to cloak the panic I knew she could see in my eyes.

"Is there anything I can do, honey?", she asked, and I shook my head, forcing a smile that felt as painful as a stab in the heart.

I hated the pity I saw in her eyes as she looked at me. And I hated even more that I couldn't do anything to make it disappear.

"Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

When she saw the look on my face, she sighed understandably, but didn't say anything, nor apologized, like she had done many times before.

She just nodded, stroking my hand with hers before letting it go. "You do let me know if you need anything, okay?", she asked, and I nodded again. She gave me another smile and left the room.

I knew the only thing I could do was wait for it to stop, and so I waited. I sat on the couch and covered myself with a blanket, grabbing my legs with my arms and resting my head on my knees.

I peered out of the window and looked at the snow falling. If there was something I didn't like about living in North Dakota, it was the never-ending, annoying cold. As a kid, I used to love playing in the snow, but when I turned thirteen, I grew to hate it.