Short Stories

Anxiety Attacks Again

        I wake up afraid, because that is how I wake up everyday. But I suppose the correct term would be anxious. Everyday there is something I dread, something that will make me want to run and hide. On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, I have to attend school. On Saturdays, I have to visit the woman who tells me what I did wrong and how I should do better and then go to my guitar lessons where I will make a fool of myself because I did not practice like I was supposed to. On Sundays, I have to go to church and praise someone I do not believe exists.

        I know I have to go, I don’t have a choice, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing differently. Because I will do what I have to do everyday; sit up nice and straight and pretend like I don’t want to run away to hide. But I want to, oh how I want to. The day could go well, but it won’t.

        “Bye sweetie, have a good day at school!”

        I smile for her. “I won’t."

My mom just laughs because she thinks I’m joking. My chances of having a good day at school are slimmer than the pencil I use to write down the wrong answer on my math worksheet. I have to run to get to the bus, since we’re parked farther away than all the other cars. “I have to run so I don’t make the bus driver wait. If I take too long, everyone starts to stare at me. But running looks stupid too, everyone is staring at me already.”

Today, my crippling anxiety gets an early start because I have to run to the bus. I make sure to sit in the first row on the right side, just like I always do. I don't say a single word as I put in my earbuds and turn up the volume so I can drown out the rest of the world. I think some people are staring as I move my mouth along to the words I hear. It must look strange, seeing as they can’t hear the song like I can. I’d stay here forever with their judgemental stares if I could avoid school. I pull out one earbud to thank the bus driver and I walk along in the cold air without a coat. The song P.O.W. starts playing softly and I sing softly to myself.

“My anxiety is rising, it just won’t go away. All this tension keeps building. Please, just leave me to die. Make, make, make it go away. All I wanna do is live another day. Make, make, make it go away. All I wanna do is live another day…”

Since the bus didn’t get here early the halls are already filled with people. Almost immediately, I turn the music up even louder than before and pull the hood on my jacket up. Maybe if I’m lucky, no one will even notice I am here. Or notice me but not say anything. I keep my head down and stare at the floor anyways.

Maybe someone said hello, but I didn’t hear. Maybe they think I don’t like them much because they didn’t see my earbuds. Maybe they should know better than to talk to someone who’s got her head down and her eyes on the floor.

When homeroom comes, I lie down in the corner of the room, turn my back to everyone, and curl up into a ball. If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep. Of course, I'm not lucky today. The day goes on as usual. I sit in the back of each class and either become mute or say much more than I should. “If I’m trying to avoid attention, then why do I call out so much? I either have to undercompensate or overcompensate, I can’t find a compromise for the two.”

I try to avoid conversations, physical contact, private discussions, being alone with only one other, and large groups of people. It’s hard to do but I know the worst is yet to come. It comes midday, just like it does everyday and I find myself standing at the back of the very long lunch line. I can already feel my stomach swirling and churning and bubbling and boiling and seething inside me. “I don’t want to go in there, with all those people, and walk down the giant center aisle to reach the table where my friends sit at the very end of the long room. I don’t want to carry a bright red tray with too much food on it past everyone in the school.”

The line moves forward with painful slowness. Now my head is hurting too and I feel like I have to lean against a wall just to stand properly. “Why does this always happen?” Now I have to ask for what food I want. Barely being able to get the words out, I don’t know what to call today’s food so I just say “May I have that please?” and point like an idiot. I stopped pointing almost immediately after realizing that my hand shook when I tried my very best to hold it still. It doesn’t work.

Moving along again, I snatch up two ice cream bars from the tiny freezer. “I shouldn’t be getting two… But if I don’t, then I have to come back here.” Then I walk down the giant lane between the rows of table. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, judging me, telling me that I stand out, and the worst part is that I can’t tell anymore which sets of eyes are truly staring and which I have imagined out of fear.

I sit down but there is no relief. “I’m sure everyone’s staring at my plate of food. Is it too much this time? Too little? I can never tell, people always complain that I eat too much or too little… Which is it this time?!” Panic has settled and she is here to stay, moving into the darkest depths of my mind. I eat my food quickly and leave ten minutes into lunch. My friends tell me to stay a little longer, but I just shake my head and tell them I’m sorry. I find myself telling them “I’m sorry” a lot.

As soon as I am free of my silverware, I run to the nearest bathroom and lock myself in the nearest stall. How I want to collapse and cry, but I can’t, and I don’t. I just stand there until my head stops pounding and my stomach stops churning and my body stops shaking.

        Then I take a deep breath and unlock the stall. Shaking, I leave the bathroom and face my next class. I know I should be used to it at this point… After all, this is how it is. Every. Day.