Wednesday, November 15, 2017 // The Statement
7B
Personal Statement: My anxiety
W
hen I was 14, it felt as if
someone suddenly hung
a strobe light over me.
It refused to budge and
followed me everywhere, the light pierc-
ing. I felt I was constantly glanced at,
scrutinized and judged by everyone. I was
wrong, but I didn’t know it back then.
All I knew was that words hung like
icicles from the roof of my mouth, and
my throat was parched when a stranger
talked to me. Ideas surfaced like bubbles
inside my head, but failed to roll off my
sandpapery tongue. My stomach churned,
my hands trembled and sweated. My
heart raced when I was assigned to speak
in front of a crowd. It panged for acknowl-
edgment and admiration. I let it down
miserably again and again. I could hardly
say anything. The few words that came
out were shaky, squeaky and rushed. I
spent nights dissecting the moments —
chalking them as failures — and crying
immeasurably with shame. I never spoke
about it to anyone.
I turned 17, and entered 11th grade.
Things hardly changed. I enveloped
myself with the three closest friends I had
growing up, using them fiercely as a shield
so I didn’t have to talk to anyone else. I
was my geekiest, unreserved and sarcas-
tic self with them. I talked for hours and
they realized how passionate and hilari-
ous I could be. One of my friends also
had a penchant for tough love. She asked
me why I didn’t talk more and why I was
always quiet around others. I hated her
questions, found them intrusive and tried
to disregard them.
I went to college alone — my friends
remained oceans away — and was pres-
ently overwhelmed. The hallways and
classrooms
teetered
with
overeager
and over-competitive people. Everyone
seemed to have their lives under control
despite entering college a few days ago.
I tried to reach out to only those who
seemed harmless to me, skipping out on
many potential friendships.
I worried for months when a conver-
sation with a classmate I’d barely known
stumbled to a resounding awkward
silence. I regretted flaking out on invita-
tions because I’d felt too nervous to say
anything. I thought I was always blun-
dering; I felt nobody else did. I fumbled
in lectures and giving presentations, and
felt I couldn’t show my face to anyone
after them. I felt insecure, misunderstood
and incessantly observed, and considered
as an object of ridicule and scorn.
I was wrong, but I could not stop myself.
My anxiety led to my shame, which spi-
raled into a deep depression. I hid in my
cramped dorm room, and mechanically
chewed the food I’d gotten from a cheap,
greasy place because I couldn’t go to the
dining hall and have everyone I know see
me as a loser, a loner or an antisocial freak
when I did not consider myself to be one.
I loved being around people, I loved my
family and my friends, and I wanted to
get to know others. But I was convinced
that everyone I met hated me, pitied me
and would drop me the minute they found
someone better. I harbored and cultivated
so much self-hate that I believed nothing
would ever change — I would always be
alone and inadequate in everything I did.
It took some time to even start the baby
steps of acknowledging my long-term
problems. I talked to my parents first,
nervous about their reactions. My father
— one of the strongest people I know —
shared that he struggled with anxiety
when he was my age. He also stuttered
occasionally, but he gradually overcame
it to have an exceptional career in pub-
lic speaking. My mother lifted the pres-
sure by saying it didn’t matter if I failed at
everything I did. I laughed, knowing she
wasn’t serious, but felt thankful for the
immense love and support she showed. A
therapist I went to for a while told me to
be proud of what I’d accomplished. I told
her all my accomplishments were small;
she sternly and consistently reminded
me to always look at the glass as half-full,
and that I was wrong. I also expressed
my problems to two friends. Both turned
out to be very supportive, listening to
every worry I had, no matter how silly or
inane it was, with the greatest empathy
and attention. I was touched and grate-
ful by everyone I reached out to, unable to
believe that it was OK to share and that I
could stop putting on a façade.
I don’t always feel great, though. There
are days when I am pounded with bitter-
ness, regret and anger that I suffer from
anxiety. There are days when I must take
extra steps to take care of myself. There
are days when I worry, over-worry and
fall asleep at 8 p.m. because I can’t take
it anymore. I am easily tired, saddened
and hurt. But I am also trying to get bet-
ter every day. I try to strike up conversa-
tions with strangers. I don’t wait for other
people to reach out to me. I go to places
alone and enjoy myself. I people-watch,
rhyme words and create stories about
them. I embarrass myself in front of peo-
ple, including some professors, and stop
caring too much.
I also see a lot of people like me in
places everywhere. I work in a residence
hall and can quickly pick out the shiest
or most socially anxious residents, unlike
some of my colleagues on staff. I try to
accommodate them and make sure they
are comfortable and happy. I reach out to
them because I have been in their shoes
and sometimes still am these days.
My anxiety — my biggest shame — has
invaluably taught me to become more
observing and empathetic toward people.
I am less inclined to judge anyone. I am
imperfect, mosaic and broken. But I am
also considerate, aware and strong. I am
finally on the road to showing myself to
the world — unworried, in the moment
and unapologetically real.
by Sami Martin, LSA Senior
ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS