In Control

2 | The Eye of the Storm

How are you feeling? How would rate your anxiety level? Do you feel really sad sometimes? What at school are you afraid of? What do you think of when you feel scared?

These were questions that Dr. Curry would ask me every time I sat in his office. I hated hearing his voice. It was monotonous and borderline annoying. However, if someone continuously asked you questions that you were reluctant to answer, it would sound annoying to you too. You'd think for a psychologist who treats children, he'd act a bit more warm and welcoming.

With my mom next to me, I would sit and stare at everything in Dr. Curry's office while my mom spoke for me, answering as many of his questions as possible. My eyes trailed from the mahogany desk to the potted ferns and plants lining the full window that overlooked that interstate next to me. One in particular always had brown, dying leaves circling the pot. I don't know why I was so fixated on this one plant. Maybe it was a sick metaphor that I created for myself, thinking I had some deadly disease that would leave me to live in fear until the day I die.

It was a grim thought for an eleven-year-old, especially considering that I knew what I had wasn't deadly. Generalized and separation anxiety disorder with a smidge of severe depression. That's what Dr. Curry diagnosed me with the first time I saw him. It was a relief to finally have something to blame all this on, but I hated the reason for having to come to him for a diagnosis in the first place.

A few weeks prior to my first visit with Dr. Curry, I experienced one of my most dramatic anxiety attacks at the time. I was already barely starting sixth grade and doing just fine in school. Everything was good and dandy, yet there was always something off about me. I could never pinpoint it and ignored it for my own sake. However, my ignorance led me to be the eyesore of a good morning.

I woke up feeling frightened. Like I had a nightmare and woke up living in it. It was almost a repeat of my first panic attack. The shortness of breath, the trembling, the crying. It was similar, but less intense. I was still fearful, but not for my life. I was fearful of where I was headed even though I had been there hundreds of times: school.

My mom could see my wariness, but didn't think much of it and left to work while my dad drove me to school. As I sat in the backseat, I began to silently cry. My dad had never seen me in this state before unlike my mom, so he handled it a bit differently when he tried dropping me off at school.

"It's time to get off, Rebecca," he said, glancing over his shoulder to me when I didn't hop out immediately. His expression was hard and indifferent.

I said no repeatedly, keeping my arms crossed over my seatbelt to keep him from taking it off. I didn't have an exact reason as to why I didn't want to get off the car. It was just the mere idea of going inside the building that terrified me.

Frustrated, Dad swore under his breath before getting out of the car and opening my car door. My hands instantly covered the seatbelt buckle when he reached for it, but he easily ripped them away.

"Please don't make me go," I begged through sobs. It was almost pathetic how strongly I was against getting out of the car. I thrashed around as he pulled me out and carried me to the front doors of the school.

Students and parents stared with confusion and worry as they witnessed my desperate attempt to escape my dad's arms. I remember looking at a younger boy whose eyes bore into mine. I could tell he was trying so hard to understand why I was behaving in such a way someone his age would. My chest tightened and for a brief moment my body relaxed. I became aware of how I was acting. If I were to look at myself, it would seem as though I was throwing a temper tantrum even though it was far from it. But it was because of that boy that I realized what he was seeing wasn't normal.