Another love letter to New York

It’s not difficult to write a love story about New York City. In fact, I think it’s nearly impossible for anyone with the slightest of creative impulses to walk down a Manhattan street unaffected by any slick inspiration or bubbling thought. New York holds the ideal formula for invoking emotion, for making the smallest of moments seem significant and trying. It’s a city filled with contagious energy, so powerful and lovely and harsh.

I thought my first week in the city would never end. I asked my roommates multiple times if they too felt as if the days were weeks long. The city felt foreign, unsupportive, intimidating. I was small and it was monstrous just waiting to swallow me whole. It sure felt like it at times, in dim subway tunnels and on tourist filled avenues, but out of each day came a new understanding, a passion and a reason to keep going.

New York is a city of contradictions. It’s the kindest city in the world. It will coddle you with rays of sun, blooming flowers, and false, boisterous confidence. It is also the cruelest city. It will kick you when you’re down, leave you hanging and wondering how you ever felt you loved it. It’s like a horrible boyfriend who makes up for every nasty, insulting fight in the end. And at the end of the day, you just can’t let go of him. You stand up, wipe the garbage juice off your new jeans and keep walking, silently reminding yourself there’s a reason you’ve stayed this long.

But as with every stale relationship, life runs its course and eventually you find yourself forced to make a decision for your own wellbeing. I find myself at this crossroad, leaving New York for the first extended amount of time since my arrival a year ago. Many would argue that a year is nowhere near enough time to fall in love, but I was hooked on my first day. I have never felt a place so loyal, so comfortable. New York is my city through and through and I can’t imagine enjoying another place knowing it’s out there.

As I sit in my tiny window watching silent cabs drive by on an empty Tuesday night, I think back to the moments I’ve felt safe here. This view has talked me down from numerous self-sabotaging thoughts, from bad highs to my lowest moments. 3rd Avenue has become my friend. And leaving its side feels like a betrayal, like I’m giving up on a support that has never given up on me.

I’ve been taught to enjoy each moment as it lasts and to be open to everything that comes my way. I’ve been told that everything is temporary and the way to live a happy, peaceful life is to grasp things as they come and gently let go as they drift away. There is no controlling the send off awaiting me. There is no fighting for another day. I must simply accept the fact that this 3rd Avenue perch is no longer my own, that it will never again be the silent friend to coddle me and calm my storms. It will never again be the place I run to, the landmark that tells me I’ve made it another day. It is no longer mine. And I am no longer its.

And I’m trying to come to terms with that: letting go. I always embrace the fact that I truly love change. You can see it in the colors of my hair, the design of my surroundings. I love to change what I can control. I love to change what I know cannot change me.

But I’ve found a place that has turned my world inside out. I’ve found a life that suits me, that makes me feel worthy. I’ve found a me that can handle the road, can handle the stress, the breakdowns. I’ve become an incredibly poised, strong woman, something I had always considered myself until the reality check that was Manhattan. I’ve come out a better person, a tougher character. I’ve abandoned the past and the people who lived there despite the small few who can handle me now. I’ve fallen in love for the first time, not with a person, but with a place and with the me who resides there.

Perhaps every love story to New York City is really just a love story to oneself. This city will change you. It will beat you up. But it will make you more than you imagined you could be. You will sleep beside the roaches, you will fend off mice. You may not have the glitz of a Park Avenue penthouse, but every moment, even the grimiest, depressive, downright awful states, will feel just as glamorous as you imagined your best day in New York City would be. There’s no changing that no matter the mood, you are in the most incredible place in the world.

So in this first chapter of my love story, I must say goodbye. Not forever, just for now. I must tie up my loose ends and make peace with the fact that the best thing in my life will be slipping through my fingers in a matter of hours. I must set it free, the same way it has done to me. And I must thank it for changing my world, my poise, my demeanor, and crafting me in its ever contradicting vision.

Sometimes you just need to stop

You feel it brewing under your skin, something’s not the same. Your pores seem wider, your hair seems wilder in a way you can’t explain. There’s a shift in the air, in the way you stand, something doesn’t feel right. You go day to day without saying a thing, you say it’s something you’ll fight.

Sometimes you just need to stop.

You scare yourself when you feel a bold aggression trace through your veins. You’re rather timid. On the streets you’re mild, but it feels like something’s changed. When a man on the street whistles and claps you hold your stride as you pass, but for the first time instead of rolling your eyes you feel your fist tighten and grasp.

Sometimes you just need to stop.

That last guy you kissed won’t leave your mind. He had no problem leaving your life. You call yourself a stupid girl. Did you think you’d be his wife? But the wear and tear of the shape of his face cuts deeper than one can see. You can’t stop replaying the times he was saying “Hey, I think you’re perfect for me.”

Sometimes you just need to stop.

The moments you miss might be passing you by, but at least you’ll remember them well. They’re plastered on every screen and device, a new meaning to show and tell. The people you hate are giving you love, tell me, do you feel adored? Do the hearts on your photo matter as much as your nights that you lived before?

Sometimes you just need to stop.

You’ve always been the one to mend, to stitch, to fix, to sew. But how can you learn to love yourself when you don’t have time to grow? You know how to fix the life of another but what about your own? You never thought you’d break but you’ve been broken: now it shows.

Sometimes you just need to stop.

Because you’ve left the shower running and you couldn’t make class on time. You may not keep with perfect rhythm but at least you can make it rhyme. Because you’ve forgotten to keep your pace, you’ve forgotten to tie your shoes. Your mind feels foggy, your thoughts are racing. There’s nothing you can do. You don’t know how to come back down from this sudden reveal of aggression. And you try and try but you seem to climb away from recognition. All your friends are saying, “It’s ok. We stress sometimes.” But you know in your heart this is not just the start of some midterms study time.

Sometimes you just need to stop.

So I pack my things and get on a flight. I’m on my way back home. I’m going to take some time to clear my mind, not fix myself alone. I step back from the city, the horns and the lights and go back to a place I don’t have to fight mice. I know I’ll come back someday maybe in years or in just a few nights.

And somewhere along the way, I’ll find peace. If I’m certain in something it’s that. I’ll cut all my ties to speaking in time and craft something honest instead. It’s okay to write things that don’t rhyme. It’s okay to let it fall flat. It’s something I’m learning, I hope I’m deserving, in shaping the space in my head. It’s been four years since I really hit pause, since a summer vacation or time without yawns. So I’ll grab a blanket, a hair tie and tea, curl up and create something that’s me. I’m thinking fiction, a thriller or two. Or maybe I’ll share more of this story with you.

And whatever path I take, I’ll be just fine. Because I listened to myself this time.

Sometimes you just need to stop.

Press Pause: Trusting news in Trump's America

  I try to bite my tongue when it comes to politics. I really do. But lately I’ve been finding it more and more important to speak up for the issues that matter to me and those around me.

  Perhaps the latest issue that has struck a chord in me may not be one that many can relate to: it may sound crazy, obsessive, nit-picky. But it’s an issue that has outraged me so far beyond comprehension because of the constitutional foundation it stands on.

  The United States is built on a cornerstone of freedom of speech. Beyond this, there is freedom of the press. This gives journalists and press members alike the ability to report, exclaim, rant and share absolutely any words that come to mind without consequence.

  In the dawning age of social media and uber sharing, a fine line has been drawn in defining a “journalist.” In a sense, freedom of the press now applies to anyone with a keyboard or a camera phone. The world of journalism is dramatically changing and being challenged to its core because of the public’s ability to document any event in their own bias and viewpoint. As of today, a new challenge has been instated: that of the verbal confirmation that the President of the United States sees the journalistic profession as the “enemy of the American people.”

  First, it’s important to acknowledge exactly whom the President is attacking. Though much of the fuel for biased news comes from non-professional individuals on social media, Trump has made a point of directing his criticisms at politically left-leaning news organizations. It’s programs and publications with opposing views to his own which are being criticized as “fake.”

  President Donald Trump is not the only authority figure to use the terminology “fake news.” He is not the only individual to reprimand the press for the content they publish, to criticize a source based on personal views. These ideals are being shared from members of the public to journalists in the White House pressroom.

  It’s time to clarify exactly what is meant when speaking of “fake news.” There is no denying fake news exists. In my definition, fake news a work of writing, video, or other form of social sharing which defies the laws of ethics in that the vast majority of its contents are exaggerated or utterly invalid. In simpler terms, fake news is anything that is just as it says: fake.

  To Trump, fake news is anything that paints him in a bad light and introduces information other than what is included in his administration’s press announcements.

  In its true definition, “fake news” should not be an article or source that does not align with one’s personal beliefs or arguments. It is not a term that should be used freely to denounce the work of trained professionals when they are publishing information an individual does not approve of.

  Journalists have a job and duty to report the closest thing to identifiable truth. That’s the goal, though the majority of the time, the truth lies somewhere in between the fibs and opinions being told from sources on all sides of a given issue. A quote from a source who expresses an unpopular opinion or exaggerates an idea should not be considered “fake news.” Reporting what an individual says in ethical context is fair game and cannot be reprimanded by those who don’t believe or agree with the source.

  We now have a President who ignores the allowed ethics of journalism as well as reviles the power of a publication all based on frustration in his own media-portrayed image. Frankly, it's terrifying for the future of the freedom of the press. We have seen action taken against journalists already, from being slammed on the President's personal Twitter to being ignored at White House press conferences. These accusations of falsity based on personal desire to control and manipulate each story are insulting to all journalistic professionals of every belief and political stance.

  In a time period of opinionated statements on every corner of the web, pure and honest attempts at reporting are the only way of guaranteeing a fair perspective and close-up grasp on what’s really happening. If these professional voices are silenced and ignored, disorganization and confusion will follow along with a downgrade in our rights as Americans to fully verbalize whatever it is we wish to say.

  The press, while allowed to voice an opinion in specific context, is an institution beyond that. It’s a community built on the pillars of honesty and unbiased reporting, characteristics that are rarely found on an individual’s Twitter feed or Facebook status. Beyond the pages of a news section, impartial statements are scarce. Their only hope is on the front page of a well-respected, trustworthy publication, many of which still thrive though the public is being ordered to doubt this.  

  It’s more important now than ever to support the publications you love and trust in their abilities to report honestly and effectively. Educate yourself on the stances of the publications of your choosing: there’s nothing wrong with a leaning publication, take Fox News or CNN for example. Just be aware of their bias, and look to other sources for alternate views on a specific issue.  

  I, along with thousands of journalists, pledge to never stop using our voices in search for the ultimate truth.

In The City

I get out of bed and get dressed. I eat breakfast. I walk outside. I’m down the street when I start to fully wake up. It takes a few minutes. For this city doesn’t take to zombies.

The horns of the cars vibrate in my eardrums. The grates on the street rumble with the sound of commuters. I am pushed. I am shoved. I am beaten by the city streets. Oh, New York, how I love you.

That’s the thing about this city. It’s harsh. Mayhem is unavoidable and the streets are filled with anger. Behind every blank expression is a form of raging passion. It’s contagious energy, contradicting in form. For this vigor is so loud, so strong and undeniably persuasive.

On the streets I am a stranger. I don’t exist to anyone but myself. I play a large part in my story, and each person I pass is just a mannequin in my scene. Their arms bump me. Their bags whip my sides. Each collision solidifies a fury, a frustration in my stomach. But it also reminds me how much I love these streets. The anonymity of my persona is a beautiful thing, a thing I haven’t found until now. Here, no one knows my name or where I am going. I am open to interpretation and my intentions are hidden, if even searched for at all. I am a mystery.

The hostile, uncaring energy radiating from each passerby envelops me. The heavy passion displayed in each determined citizen inspires my creativity. I write about the people I see on the subway: a man with a parrot chained to his right ring finger. It’s well behaved, but out of place. I watch as silent tears roll down the cheeks of a woman sitting to my right. I write about her demeanor, never assuming her thoughts. A lady with a screaming child drops a milk bottle on the tracks. A drunken man stumbles onto the ground near a trashcan. The chaos is maddening but complements the scene like white noise. It comforts me, this congestion of disconnected motions and noises. On this subway platform, I feel more at home than I have ever felt. For here, my own psychosis is balanced by the craziness of others. I am equal.

I am teetering on this confidence throughout my days in the city. I was once told the city has moods. I have grown to believe it myself. Some days the city is sad. Others, it is so joyful it feels like a bit of heaven on earth. You can feel it in the air, in the weather and the interactions of those around you. Each member of the crowd feels it- the good or the bad. We’re all in it together, under whatever poignant umbrella chooses to shadow or shade our emotions. I’ve learned not to take the moods too seriously. Each high will crash into a pit of daylong despair and each low will inflate with good news and rejoicing. Even so, it takes a lot to believe you aren’t at least a little bit insane.

On the low days, I imagine my family at home in Chicago. I remember the streets of my hometown. They’re nothing like this place. For a city as comparable in size, Chicago sounds so empty. The streets are cold and barren. The buildings are stained in black. The wind whips forcefully enough to tear your soul straight from your body, but most importantly, you’re never alone. Chicago is home to the men who approach you on the street, grabbing your arm and trying to drag you with them. Chicago is a place where violence creeps out of the alleys past 9 p.m. just looking for a stranger to prey on. Chicago is the place where a girl from my high school was drugged and carried out of a bar, the place my dad’s best friend was stabbed to death on a busy street while walking home from work. Chicago is dismal and heartless.

When I step off the streets of New York, loneliness washes over me. The sounds of the city that comfort me live on in nothing but echoes of sirens and distant yells. The passion never dies, but it retires as I shut my eyes and dream of tomorrow. I embrace my solitude. It’s the only way to make it through the night. At least I feel at home. I feel safe. My tiny New York room has a charm and a comfort Chicago can never offer. I feel capable of living fully without the restraints of shadowed figures in alleyways and defensive “what-ifs.” New York nights are brighter and uninterrupted. They can grow cold, but not in the sense of a Chicago numb heart.

There are days I want to escape the city. There are times I wish to be closer to the people I love. There are reasons I stay, reasons I won’t find in my hometown. From city to city, the transition is indescribable. I can’t imagine returning to Chicago and finding happiness now that I’ve tasted the full-bodied lust of New York City. The hardships empower me. Vulgar yells from commuters and rude car horns set a fire in my bloodstream. It’s an irreplaceable spirit, an incomparable disposition that has forever changed who I am and how I behave. I now have a face drained of emotion. I have a skin thicker than bricks. I have a motivation that sits deep in the heart of my soul, pulling me toward every new opportunity without looking back. I have a life free of boredom and a demeanor so hostile yet beautifully delicate. I’m a New Yorker in heart, though Chicago may be “home,” and I can’t imagine that ever changing.

On fighting through fear

Fear is a tangible emotion. I can feel it. I can feel the emotion radiating off of every person I pass, bundled up in wool coats and cotton scarves and manifested desperation. We’re trying to be strong but we’re breaking.

I can see it in their eyes, the eyes that normally look away, never issuing more than a passing glance. I see the heartbreak, the sadness, the empty longing for something better. I feel it as we brush shoulders, a usually aggressive New York minute drained of composure and sulking with depression. Our lines have crossed as our battles seem lost and the city doesn’t feel so lonely.

But the city is worn. Heartbeats are accelerating. Blank expressions are falling uncontrollably into somber emotion. Whatever makes this city full of power seems to have been dismissed.  On any other day, the strangers we pass ignite raging fires of passion and determination within us. Today these faces are nothing more than daydreamt outlines of lost hope. Their shapes are sunken, each neutral mouth drooping in submission of something bigger, something foreign. In New York we know sadness. We know loneliness. But this isn’t it. New York does not live here anymore.

The dark skies only add to the weight of the air. I feel it pushing my shoulders closer to the sidewalk as if it wants me to lie down in defeat. I consider. My lungs feel cramped with toxic air, so full of mixed emotion. I’ve never tasted such lethal energy. It seeps into my pores and makes my skin crawl. An unwelcome suppressor has invaded my home and I feel like I’ve been evicted from the place I‘ve come to love.

But I will not lie down. There is a battle to be fought.

New York will go on living. When the sun comes out and the tension lifts, my beautiful city will thrive on its ideals and morals. It will stand together by admitting it must step up and speak its mind. It will embrace each and every individual regardless of race, gender or sexuality. Every person will be spoken for and every person will be loved. It’s hard to imagine in New York, a city far too apathetic for its own good. But this city will come alive with color and light and love because it has no other choice.

We must defend what can rightfully be ours, a city free of oppression. New York is a place that knows how to mend a broken heart, a broken morale, and a broken infrastructure. We will prosper.  

But we cannot succeed standing on divided ground. As we enter a new era, we must leave our anger behind and remember the benefits that come along with pure love. We must remember that no one can take away our faith and our ability to care unconditionally about each and every being. We must radiate with joy and compassion and hollow the air of fear by injecting it with warmth, comfort, and acceptance.

Our goals have not been derailed. We still stand strong in what we believe. It may take longer to achieve our ultimate destiny but it will not deter us from reaching unified equality, from perfecting a world where no one lives in fear of harm done by another woman or man. We will hold strong as a country that believes in the power of our voices and unsullied hearts. We will stand together because together we are everything. He is one man. We are millions.  

Tips on coping with anxiety

Hi Everyone,

I have absolutely loved reading your comments and direct messages. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to respond to all of them, but please know I have read your stories, your concerns and your questions. It means the world that my frustrated words have struck a chord with so many.

In my previous post, I explained that panic attacks, while a big part of my personal history, are becoming close to rare in my day to day life (woohoo!) That doesn't mean my anxiety is gone, I've just found a healthy and productive way to cope with it. Many of you have asked for advice, so I decided the best way to reach as many people as possible was to lay out my favorite tricks.

I do feel unqualified to give you heavy advice on things like medication. Everyone is different when it comes to that. But due to so many requests, I thought I would lay out what works for me in terms of natural coping. I just made the move from Chicago to New York City, a time period that could have caused much uneasiness and mental stress, but was able to do it gracefully due to my routines. Hopefully, some of these things will help you personally or will inspire other ideas that work for you.

Find a “safe” environment

Create a place in which you are able to disconnect from the outside world and calm yourself. This can be your bedroom, a coffee shop, a park bench…somewhere you feel you can go to be alone and reconnect with yourself. For me, this is just shutting the door to my room and flipping my phone over so I’m not distracted. Find what works for you. Tell yourself that you are safe where you are. Mental communication is everything. Over time, this place will become a naturally calming force.

Trust your body

It’s important to listen to how you are feeling, believe in your intuition and make decisions based on your best interest. The day I began handling my anxiety and panic well was the day I decided to put my needs before the interests of others. Try to be confident in your ability to control your life. Take it one day at a time. Say no to plans you feel threatened by. It may take time for you to become comfortable trusting yourself, accepting your needs and finding balance. Don’t coddle yourself; push yourself, allow yourself to experience mildly provoking situations and don’t purposely avoid anxiety-including activities. If it gets to be too much, allow yourself to step out, and don’t feel guilty about it.

Try Meditation

Meditating gives your mind time to relax and allows you to disconnect from your physical body. Yoga is also a good option to channel your energy into something physical. Exercise in any form is good for directing your energy into something more productive. 

Create a Playlist

I have an incredible relationship with music. It’s something I plan to write about in my future posts. For me, the right music is everything in ANY situation, especially when I need to relax or change my mindset. I’ve linked my go-to playlist here. 

Get In Touch With Your Senses

Essential oils and fragrances can be really helpful in calming your body. Look into essential oil diffusers and relaxing scents like Lavender. Sweet Orange is my personal favorite because it has a very happy tone. You can carry oils in your bag and apply them behind your ears for quick relief when out in public. Spray fragrances can have the same effect. My favorite line is Indigo Wild’s Zum spray. The Sea Salt scent is AMAZING.

Again, I’m sorry I am unable to respond to all of your personalized response. I hope this can be of some help in learning where to start when creating a coping routine.

Thank you again for all of the love.

- Kelly  

In regards to "Anxiety Is An Invalid Excuse"

I am so incredibly humbled by the responses I have received in regards to my post “Anxiety Is An Invalid Excuse.” The amount of strangers and friends who have opened their hearts and told me their stories has been incredibly moving. I feel, based on comments, that I owe a more in-depth explanation.

I have evolved through many different anxiety disorders as I have grown. Now, I’ve settled in an area between anxiety and panic disorder. This means panic attacks can hit me at any time, triggered or random.

I feel it’s important to follow up in respect for others who have tried, or are currently on, medication. I have seen many comments on shared posts saying that it sounds as if my anxiety is not controlled. The concept may be to be confusing to many: I imagine it’s incredibly difficult to comprehend for someone who has not experienced the illness as a whole.

Unfortunately, medication is not a simple, quick fix. It can keep symptoms at bay and act as a cushion, but anxiety and panic are powerful.

The truth is, symptoms rarely just go away. Medication is a tool to help cope, not to dissolve them. I’m sure a day will come when there is a full cure for mental illnesses, but at this point in time, our resources are limited to aiding the function of everyday life and learning to live with the disorders we have been given. Since starting medication I have had a significantly less number of panic attacks and my general anxiety symptoms, like constant nausea, dizziness and low appetite, have disappeared completely. It’s the healthiest I’ve been since my first attack at the age of 12. I am now able, most days, to go to school, work, and efficiently act as a seemingly unaffected member of society. That does not mean my illness is gone, it just means I’ve been able to cope in a healthy and proficient way.

I wrote my original post in the frustration of a full-fledged panic attack, the first I’ve had in a few months. To those who experience attacks as well, no, I have absolutely no idea how I did it. I somehow channeled my energy into writing- I swear it was divine intervention. Panic attacks still happen to me on occasion, but I now am able to handle them gracefully, knowing that I have the resources.

I fought the idea of medication for a very long time, thinking I would be able to cope with the symptoms on my own. And I did for a while. It wasn’t until I began having attacks while driving that I decided to give medication a try. It hasn’t dramatically changed my life. But it has given me the confidence and comfort of knowing I now hold the reigns on my issues. Think of it this way: you may take vitamins to protect yourself from getting a cold, as I take medicine to protect myself from getting an attack. Sometimes, precautionary measures can’t stop you from getting sick.

With this aid, I am confident in my ability to stay a healthy and reliable person, employee and friend. It doesn't mean there aren't days I just need to be alone, to deal with whatever mental chaos is greeting me. It does mean that in an instance of bad anxiety or attack, if need be, I can quickly bring myself back to neutral ground and continue working or acting as I was in a calmer state.

Again, thank you so much to everyone who has shared and responded to my post. I have been so incredibly honored to hear your stories and receive your messages. I am so sorry for all of you who can relate to it, but I hope knowing there are hundreds of thousands of others relating as well has comforted you as much as it has comforted me. We are not our mental illnesses. We are simply people succeeding at fighting something that many still do not understand. Thank you for helping me spread the word and acknowledging how real mental illness is.

Everyone has a cross to bear. Anxiety is mine.

I want to make sure you know that there is nothing we can’t do.

With all my love,

Kelly

Anxiety Is An Invalid Excuse.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I just got back to my room after a failed attempt to go to class. I’m sitting here, writing this, trying to think of something to email my professor to sugarcoat what I’m feeling, to really drive home the point that class today was unbearable for me. You see if it was the flu or a bad head cold this would be easy. I would simply relay the symptoms and be excused with a general “feel better” and a hidden relief that I wouldn’t be getting anyone else sick. To send an email saying I just had to take a breather on a 4th Ave. step because my lungs felt as if they were collapsing and my body was shaking so badly I could hardly walk doesn’t do the trick.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I was supposed to go out to dinner with my friends a few nights ago but couldn’t get myself out of bed due to some unwelcomed existential dread about nothing in particular. No, it wasn’t something my horoscope said. It wasn’t something I was anticipating in the upcoming week. I wasn’t “nervous.” I was simply incapable. “But it’ll be fun,” they said. “You never go out with us.”

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I fear having to tell people I’m on medication because the second I do, I see my fears written across their faces. The fact that I have to take a dose of something with an unpronounceable name twice a day just to make me feel like I’m residing on some middle ground that makes me capable of mandatory human function immediately sets off alarms that I am a lesser person, lacking independence and radiating unpredictability. All of a sudden I’m the crazy, mentally unstable girl completely incompetent and incapabe of any mundane task in front of me. I don’t even dream of revealing I have a Xanax in my bag in case of emergency, because the one time I mentioned it, the faces of my friends were the same as I’d expect if they saw me shooting up heroin in the bathroom of the bar.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. In the eyes of others, it makes me a liar. Lazy. Inadequate. Delusional. Crazy. I can’t say I have a diagnosis because everyone I tell is conditioned to think I’m either a deranged psychopath or I’m faking it because I’m simply too fragile to face life like a normal person; underwhelming unable to walk through a typical routine without having an upper to keep me stable. Do they think I pity myself so much to induce a self-hatred strong enough to keep myself so far from mental catharsis? Do they think I find this fun?

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I’ve begun to believe it myself. Every time I feel my chest get heavy, my hands get sweaty, my vision become disconnected, I tell myself to suck it up: that it’s all in my head. Maybe it is. That’s certainly where it lives. But tell that to my body when I’m locked in my room, unable to move or think or breathe. Tell that to my ears that simply decide to stop hearing and scream with hollow ringing that disorients me to the point of defeat. Tell that to the girl who has sat on grimy floors in restaurant bathrooms and called for cabs with no goodbye because, for a few moments, she can’t remember how to exist.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. They say there’s a science behind it. That it’s just how I work. They say it’s a sickness, real as cancer. But how am I supposed to believe it when I can’t convince myself it’s not self-induced? How am I supposed to survive an illness I’m not convinced even exists? How am I supposed to love my mind if I constantly doubt its ability to decipher reality from fiction? 

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I know this because my school only allows three absences per semester. My only saving grace is that the school psychiatrist believes me. I’ve officially been categorized, embossed, labeled with the word “disabled.” I feel like a sick scam. Who am I to say I’m hindered when there’s nothing visibly wrong with me: when some days I function at 110 percent and nothing can hold me back. I feel like a disrespectful fool calling myself disabled when I have a condition so loosely defined, so casual. I have no right to categorize myself as someone with real life problems. There are many who have it much worse than me. And because my vices cannot be seen from the surface they’re perceived as fake. It’s a bittersweet sentiment knowing my flaws are beautifully misunderstood in a way that allows me to pretend they don’t exist while someone is watching. I thrive in the precious moments I spend being normal. I cripple in the instances I must try to explain the place I’m coming from, the place no one will ever truly understand until they feel their heart stop beating in their chest only to accelerate far past a normal rhythm, blood rushing to their head until the whole world fades away to a crystallized screen of silent white. I’m sure the letter sent to each of my teachers makes them think I’m just a student with low self-esteem who whines and pouts my way through life, looking for shallow excuses to half-ass my work. But I want to succeed. I want to live. To live comfortably. That's my dream.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse because I can’t convince myself I’m not insane. I can’t get over the possibility that every trigger, every panic, is rooted deep in my overactive imagination who happens to be a spiteful little bitch that likes to see me squirm. It’s in the calm moments I feel it most. When I’m finally content and that sharp jab of terror hits the sweet spot in the middle of my throat, closing in until I’m choking on invisible tribulations. It’s so vivid I can see the muscles contracting, turning purple as I fear…what? What is it that I fear? It’s the imaginary evils that sneak up and get me in the moments I least expect it. It’s the seconds of doubt that turn into gut-wrenching reservations and claustrophobic convulsing that drive me right back under my sheets until a glimmer of light breaks through the stitching. It’s the darkest days and the brightest nights because sleep is the only time I can fully escape it.

   Anxiety is an invalid excuse. So I refuse to let myself give in to the impulses. I’m a fighter. I hate the guilt I feel every time I have to step out of a room, find the little, hidden stash of pills in my purse and sneak one out of view of anyone I know. I don’t know how anyone enjoys that high. It makes me sad, the lowest I’ve ever felt, feeling incapable of performing in my day-to-day life without an artificial aid. But I’ve come to terms with the idea that sometimes there is no other option. I hope one day I’ll be okay with that.

Read my follow up on medication here and my tips for coping with anxiety here.

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