One of my English class assignments was to create a multi-genre project. For my final piece, I was allowed to pick the genre. Being a writer, I chose the narrative genre, but decided to combine my love of doodling with my love of writing and create a combination print and graphic memoir. I'm including it here, because this...is me. This is what this story was born out of. You might even recognize some pieces of Brennan's story in mine. You might also notice that Wattpad poster on the wall in the illustration; clearly my love of Wattpad has seeped into my school assignments!

The captions on the illustrations are part of the story, and are meant to be read in conjunction with it. When you get to the picture, read that line, as it's meant to be part of the story.

For those of you who have anxiety: I know it doesn't seem like it, but it really will be ok.

_

I Will Be Ok

I was seven. We were late to church and my Sunday school class, with the other seven-year-old children already seated around the little circular tables, crayons scrawling and voices chattering, took on the form of a vengeful audience. In my mind, they would all turn and look at me as soon as I entered the room. They would all whisper among themselves about how late I was, and how I was the last one there.

After all, hadn't I agonized over the minutes that passed—hadn't I waited anxiously by the door, ready to go, as my parents struggled to wrangle my other three siblings and get ready themselves—watching the big hand on the clock in our living room tick-tick-tick closer and closer to 'late'? Now, my stomach turned as I stood in the hall, trying to convince my dad not to make me go in. My pulse hammered in my ears, my heart beating a steady rhythm like a drum. Hot tears pricked my eyes. Everything was hot, from my face to the tips of my ears. "I'm sick; my stomach hurts," I told my dad. And it did. "You'll be ok," he said.

I was nine. My dad was in the front seat, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in frustration.

I cried in the back seat, because I was afraid to go into Chili's and have dinner with my family. For some reason, I was suddenly petrified of going inside, being swallowed in the dim light of the restaurant, and eating in front of other people who I didn't know. I couldn't explain it to my dad; I couldn't explain it to myself. My stomach tied itself in knots. It threatened to toss all of its contents into the outside world. Since my stomach was upset, I convinced myself that I was sick...that if I ate, I would throw up. "This isn't normal," my dad said, in a stern dad voice, which was apparently the only thing that could cut through my hysteria. "If you're sick, we should go to the hospital." Some part of me knew I wasn't really ill. That part knew that my mind had made this up. So, because I was more afraid of showing up at the hospital only to be told that nothing was wrong with me, I went inside the restaurant. My dad held my sweaty hand in his big, warm one. Maybe he was trying to give me some strength. "You'll be ok," he said.

I was fourteen. I was a shiny new high school student, with matching folders, fancy pens I loved to write with, and fresh notebooks. Our school believed in preparing students for the ACT test year by year, so we generally spent one day in September or October taking part in a practice test that would gradually mimic the ACT until we were (theoretically) prepared to take said test. I was on the swim team. It was morning practice the day of testing. I stood in a bathroom stall in the locker room, having excused myself for a minute and leaving my teammates in the pool. I just stood there. Water dripped from the sopping ends of my hair onto the floor under my soaked flip flops. I put a hand to my stomach, which was doing somersaults again. Soon, salty tears dripped down my face in addition to the chlorinated water running from under my swim cap. What's wrong with me? I thought. I thought this was gone. I breathed. In and out. I left the bathroom stall. I stood in front of the mirror and wiped away my tears. With slippery hands, I turned the squeaky knobs and let the warm water rush into the sink and spiral down the drain. I tried to picture the anxiety swirling down the drain with it. I shoved my hands underneath the stream.

I was fourteen. I sat in my room. The vent on my family's old laptop spit hot air onto my legs, and I thought about finding something to set it on (I'd read somewhere that the heat of a laptop could cause burns and, being a hypochondriac, was convinced I'd get them) but didn't go looking in the end. It was every morning now, before swim practice, plus sometimes just before school as well, or before doing something like going into a store.

I opened Google.

Sick to my stomach nervous. Search. As if on cue, my stomach flipped. Nervous stomach. Click. My stomach flopped.

"...can be caused by anxiety..."

Search bar: Symptoms of Anxiety? Click.

I wish I could remember the first time I felt the symptoms that are now all too familiar to me: flushed face, upset stomach, tight throat, dizzy head, racing pulse. Sometimes I feel like remembering might tell me something about myself, something that I'm missing. A why. Was there a trigger? I can't remember, I can't remember, I can't remember. Why am I not ok? I stare into the mirror and try to feel ok. I pretend the girl who stares back at me is confident. I pretend she doesn't care what people think, so she doesn't obsess over it to the point of anxiety.

I am now. Twenty-one. I am getting better, but not all-the-way-better. I feel like a shadow is hanging over my head, spelling my impending doom.

It's always been that way, my anxiety...an ebb and flow, with times where I feel fine (n-o-r-m-a-l) and times where I feel like the bottom is falling out from under me. I'm no longer afraid of simple things like going to the grocery store or walking into work. I'm only afraid that, like before, this is just a calm spot in the storm, and things are destined to worsen again. I'm afraid that dark clouds are looming on my horizon.

So I focus. I try not to think too far into the future, and take one day at a time. I create routines: school, work, free time. It keeps me sane. I have to be ok, I tell myself. I tell myself I've already lost time in school, partly because of my anxiety. I tell myself that I will be ok. But it doesn't always work. Some nights, I press my face against my pillow and cry, spilling out frustration and anger (usually at myself) and pain. Some nights I just fall asleep, exhausted from all the trying. It is in those nights...the crying and the pain and the frustration...that I suddenly realized.

It's ok to cry. Suddenly I know that it's ok not to be ok.

I fall asleep. I let the fan blow on my face, cool hands wiping away the heat in my cheeks and slowing my pulse. It is ok that not everything is all right just yet. It may never be all right, but that's ok.