According to www.nimh.nih.gov, an astounding eight percent of teens, roughly 3,348,000 people, in the United States are presumed to be suffering from an anxiety disorder.  Of these young adults, only about eighteen percent, around 602,553, ever get the necessary mental health care.  Many people are not able to get the support they need from family and friends in times that they are overwhelmed.  I am one of the millions of teenagers in America suffering from a crippling anxiety disorder.
Losing my mind to the constant attacks at random intervals throughout the day lead me to become more introverted and antisocial than most people at school.  Sitting in any classroom at school, I would start to feel panicked for naught.  My eyes could not bear to look anywhere but my small, personal bubble, and, even though that was a “safe space,” it still reminded me of the uncertainty of my location.  No one, though I am positive they never tried, broke through the constant haze of my unnecessary fear.  The trembling body, painful expressions, and distorted physique queued not a single person.  I knew I was alone, and along with the terror of the panic attacks, it killed me slowly on the inside.
Attacks were the least of my worries when the unfounded insecurities started to flood my brain.  I was not thin or pretty enough to hang out with the significantly more beautiful people who surrounded me.  In my head, the only reason any of my friends, acquaintances, and teachers talked to me was their surplus amount of pity.  All around me, the situations I saw and heard piled up my hundreds of lists of insecurities that surrounded my every daily breath and thought.  People constantly said cruel statements as I overheard not-so-private conversations.
“She can’t play this instrument well at all,” said one person to his friend.
He replied, “No one really cares about her when she is in the band.”
“I wish she would just quit already,” another piped up.
It was a continual attack of, “She is too annoying to hang out with us,” and, “Why does she have to talk to me,” from people who knew nothing about me.  The comments ate away at my mind as I sat by myself as I internally and outwardly shook and exploded.
Starvation was a course of action I took when I realized in junior high I was never going to be the girl in the magazines or the gorgeous girl who sits next to everyone on the bus.  ‘You are morbidly obese.  You are a lazy, good-for-nothing kid with a head full of a clock’s constant ticking.’  Now, anorexia nervosa was not just described as not eating, no.  It is described as eating less than around 600 calories a day, which is less than 1,200 calories to keep the heart healthy and the daily recommended 2,000 calories, in order to unnaturally lose weight in an obsessive manner.   Every person has her own way to cope with the need to lose weight to become the human being she wants to be in her life, and I chose to chew on cube-shaped ice, plastic straws, and dry, tasteless bamboo skewers to cancel out the hunger I felt as I only ate less than the 600 calories necessary to diagnose anorexia.  Shamefully, the souls that I lived with every day did not notice a single problem.  The only one who was able to combat the anxiety that plagued my body image was myself.
I eventually came to terms with the fact that I continued to destroy my body by not eating.  I slowly began to eat foods I decided were not good for me even though it scared me to death.  The ripe, juicy taste of oranges and the sweet, watery release of watermelon allowed me to eat more food as I destroyed my unhealthy diet.  It was a slow struggle to what I assume can only be close to the top; however, I definitely brought myself out of the darkness.  Unsurprisingly, although I saved myself, the term anorexia nervosa plagues me whenever I look back at my eighth grade year filled with the loss of meaningless, societal standards.  Nobody did anything about my illness; the only person it really hurt was I.  No one really cared about me.
Nearly a year after the incident with my anorexia nervosa, I began a new deathly habit:  self-harm.  The addiction began after trying prescription antidepressants and having multiple issues surround my peers and teachers.  Self-harm was an outlet for my worries, anger, and downright disgusting depression, but it was never a constant to make me feel more secure or fend off my anxious feelings.  As a punishment for just being myself, I would take sharp objects and carve into my thighs like someone would draw on a piece of paper, delicately with purpose.  The habit continued full force for three months before I turned myself in to the school guidance counselor in the middle of the school day.  I was shivering with fear when I went upstairs to find the teacher to whom I would spill one of my darkest secrets.  She pulled me into her office, but it was extremely hard to understand what was going on around me as my vision became blurry and my ears whirled together the many sounds in the high school office normally filled with bright sign-up papers, hard chairs, and shrill telephone rings.  I only felt embarrassment as the counselor called my mother to inform her about what I was doing, ignoring my hands clasping and unclasping in a manner to be described only as guilty.  My mother eventually picked me up at the school, absolutely enraged by the lack of emotional inflection in my voice and actions.  My mother did, in fact, get me the expensive professional help that I needed; however, even when I tried my hardest, I had to realize recovery is never that easy.  I relapsed a coupled of times, but, currently, I have found less invasive ways of dealing with my self-loathing and self-harm.
Recently, seeing others with the same problem and trying to help them, I realized how ridiculous it was that the people around me that had an inkling I was self-harming, friends and family, did not think to try to get me help.  Addictions like these can be stopped through self-realization that there is a problem that needs to be solved and can be solved through the support and understanding of family and friends.  Betrayal is what I felt when I noticed friends had realized I had lacerations in random areas weekly, even daily, and they did not get me professional medical help.
When I find myself thinking back on this particular period of my anxiety disorder, I am still not sure I could have handled it better than I did.  It was and still is hard to make decisions when any sort of mental illness plagues any person’s vision, let alone an adolescent girl’s mind.  I do know, however, that having this anxiety disorder and making these mistakes early on in life helps me to come to terms with the direction my journey in life is taking me currently. It is easier to accept that I am going to feel defeated most days, and I am going to feel absolutely horrid for days, weeks, and even months.  Nothing I can do will ever take the illness away, but that does not mean I cannot live my life as a successful young adult and get on with all of my hopes and dreams.  I am going to be who I want to be, not what my illness tells me to be.