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