I’m in the backseat of my Grandma’s car. We’re pulled into the AMC Theatre parking lot, about to go inside when it happens.
I can’t hold back so it all comes flying upwards.
Puke piles up on the seats, on the seat belts and spills over the cup holders. It’s in my lace-topped socks. It squeaks around my mary-jane sneakers. The stench rises in the June heat. Macaroni noodles, in regurgitated form, seep into the khaki floor liners.
I can feel the perplexed stare of my grandma and my brother. They aren’t disgusted. But their faces show shock and a tinge of anger that only makes me feel worse.
I want to apologize, or at least explain, but I don’t have the words. My seven-year-old self won’t have the words for an entire decade.
I had become Champion Puker Number One. I was like a comic book character, except my super power was resurrecting my breakfast from its digestive grave. Mortifying, trust me. In the sink at school. In front of my parent’s friends in downtown Chicago. In a bathroom stall at Sweet Tomatoes on 79th and State Line. Name a place in the Johnson County area. I’ve probably blown chunks there.
I have anxiety.
It took me sixteen years and four months to say it out loud. Thankfully my vomiting stopped in fourth grade. But the anxiety kept showing up, never really leaving me alone.
I can’t go a day without feeling the black tar of anxiety that starts in the pit of my stomach. And hard as I try, it engulfs me. I am weak to it. I cannot prevent it.
The triggers are everywhere.
* * *
Nine years later and I still hadn’t found the words.
A sorry excuse for a sophomore year chemistry equation is scratched out in black ink before me.
This won’t raise your C before the end of the semester.
Aggressively I punch a final attempt into my calculator. Still wrong.
Colleges don’t like slackers.
My eyes try to shut. It’s already midnight. And I’m failing. At everything.
Without warning, the thought bubbles up.
What’s the point?
My life is caving inwards and I don’t even realize it.
A thought crosses my mind. At first it feels innocent, so I entertain the idea. In all honesty, what is the point of all this? All these equations, all these headaches? No, my mind stretches further, what’s the point of all of this? I don’t sleep. I hardly eat. I cry in front of my classmates. My friends have dissipated. Nothing is easy anymore. It all takes exhaustive effort. Can’t I just stop it all?
These thoughts are like a ghost whispering debilitating words, holding me back. I will study and study, but when I get handed a fresh Scantron all my brain can do is go white with worry, unable to process.
I have paralyzed myself.
I’ve always worried about my grades, but it hasn’t kept me up at night the way it does now. I’ve always had moments of panic, but they’ve never lasted weeks. Stress is supposed to propel me forwards, so why do I feel like it’s pulling me back?
* * *
July, the summer before junior year.
Midnight hangs around me. I’m a shadow beneath the full moon. A few yards away Grant, Adam, SaraRose and Max Ricochet laughter as they plan our sleeping arrangements. Desert stars form a halo of light around me. It’s our final night in the Israeli wilderness. We’re almost finished hiking from the Mediterranean to the Galilee. Good spirits are as plentiful as the bugs that buzz around my head or the specks of dirt on my shins and knees.
For one week we’ve scaled mountainsides. We’ve navigated ancient caves. We’ve slept on mats–happily. For one week we didn’t have to be ourselves.
So, for one week I didn’t worry.
It was the longest I have gone without the oppressive stomach cramps. Without the severe pounding in my temples. Without a clenched jaw.
In my hands I hold a quivering iPhone 5. I’ve borrowed it from the only girl with an unlimited data plan.
A prickle of goosebumps rise up my arms when I visualize all the dark moments. They were for this, I tell myself. All of the half-moons beneath my eyes. The panic attacks. Constantly refilling the coffee pot.
And now I can view my Advanced Placement test scores. I can find myself. I can validate every tear. After this number, after I know this score, I can close last year’s chapter.
I’m sure I did well.
I plug in my username and password.
It was an easy class.
I hug my orange pullover closer to my body and refresh the page.
At least a three.
I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them, the oxygen escapes me. Every last molecule of air is gone. I can’t breathe. I blindly wander back to the campsite.
I failed.
On a scale of one-to-five, I got a one.
I stumble backwards. I sit down at the campsite. I tell them my score. Their faces are illuminated by a crackling fire and I can’t believe I’m telling them. They hardly know me.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I would bet it’s a mistake.”
“You shouldn’t think twice about it.”
I had spent an entire of year of my life worrying about the wrong things. And it doesn’t hit me until right now. I’m on top of a mountain. The day before I had heard Syrian missile fire from across the border. I’m a Midwest kid in the Middle East, without my parents or anyone I know. Why should some score scare me so much? Why should life scare me so much?
* * *
June 2014
I promised myself that life would different. So I worked for it.
Every couple of steps my ankles falter, or my shoulders rip with pain. But I don’t feel it. When I run, I can’t feel anything. I’m not doing it to lose weight. I’m not doing it to gain speed. I’m running for myself. My iPod is cranked so loud I can’t hear my own breath. It’s how I cope with whatever is on my mind. But lately, I haven’t felt so bothered.
I sprint the last seven houses up my street. My legs snap like rubber bands. My breaths are painful. No part of my body is untouched by sweat. And it feels so good. In the air conditioning of my house I hear, “Grades came, good job!” My mom hands me an opened envelope.
I tear out the piece of paper. The automated, folded up piece of paper stares back at me. Eight triangular letters slide down the page in a perfect symmetrical line. I’ve dreamt about this moment before. Straight A’s. For the first time in my entire life I’ve achieved a perfect report card. I rush to highlight it, and check to make sure it’s okay that I put it up on the refrigerator. It looks a little ridiculous as the only thing taped to our stainless steel non-magnetic fridge.
It doesn’t make sense. I thought junior year would ruin me. I thought I didn’t have a chance. I thought by letting go of my stress, I wouldn’t have any drive. I thought my anxiety was key to my grades, but it’s clear now, it was quite the opposite.
I know it will always be there. Lurking. Waiting to pounce. Like meeting up with a long-lost enemy. But now I know I can beat it. And someday, I will.
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