Personal Narrative: My Suffering With Anxiety Disorders

Living with anxiety is a battle everyday. I wake up and I’m not sure if today will be good or bad. It can start out good, but the next thing I know, I’m having a panic attack. The world around me starts to cave in, and the noise I hear becomes static; it’s as if I’m being swallowed whole. Suffering from a panic attack is incredibly embarrassing. Nobody understands what I’m going through, they all think it’s in my head or that I’m being dramatic. What they don’t understand is that, it’s a real problem. Just like any other illness, anxiety is paralyzing; so are panic attacks. There are days I don’t want to get out of bed because I’m afraid that today is the day everything will end, so it’s just safer to stay in bed. My anxiety is unpredictable,

That was the phrase that had been assaulting my ears for the last half an hour. Although it wasn’t odd that someone was telling me that specific phrase, this time it was different. My grandmother, whom I thought had understood my problems, had just proven to me that she actually didn’t. At the age of 12, I was heartbroken.

At the age of thirteen, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and major depressive disorder. In the beginning, I felt like my brain was split in half - the irrational side and the rational side. The

This feeling was unusual because as a youngster, I spent most of my childhood going on acting auditions and

Passing the end of the cold winter, Cherry blossoms and flowers are blooming. We were sitting under the flower rain. It was spring.

Hello! I’m so excited to be back. Oh how I’ve missed writing! This post will be more of an update on what has happened these last few months, so, lets get started. After getting out of Rogers Memorial Hospital for my OCD and Anxiety, I had one week home and then I went right off to college. It was a pretty scary step for me. Just a few months earlier I couldn’t handle anyone mentioning the word “school”, let alone actually attend. But that is exactly what I did, and surprisingly, I felt ready.

I was sitting in a blue chair in the kitchen, confused. My brother was sitting to my right. I looked into my dad’s eyes; they were pained and full of sadness. He started speaking to us, but I only remember hearing the last sentence: “Dadi has a terminal neurological condition, called PSP.” Shock rushed through my body as I processed his words. Every memory of my grandparents, living life to the fullest within their quaint house in the Pittsburgh suburbs, rushed through my mind as I tried to hold on to the past.

When I first came to America, I was bullied because I was different, and judged of every action so I could be mocked by the way I behaved. I used to have no problems asking where the bathroom is, and I didn’t care about my accent or grammar as long as I got the message across. But years growing up in a tiny Southern town, unaware of the existence of the Asian race, molded me into a different person. I was, and still, fearsome of social situations, as little as asking someone in class for a pencil. I could never ask for help because I was afraid what will happen during the process, or after. In my head, I’d imagine instances where my voice could crack while asking, the class could go silent focusing their attention onto me, or worse, finally having the courage to ask, but it turns out the person I asked had rejected my request. This personality of mine is so painful at times, I considered it as a disorder. I was always stuck in between this thick social barrier; I couldn’t approach anyone, always the one waiting to be approached. But, unlike the silent students who are great scholars, I was never a great student myself, and I suffered immensely. When it was time for group projects, I was always the fatboy in PE, having the teacher assign me to a random group. I’ve been trying to overcome this social anxiety by forcing myself to talk to new people,

All my life, I have suffered from generalized anxiety disorder, which can make it difficult to do mundane tasks and educational requirements. For example, giving speeches, taking exams and quizzes, and having to communicate with other students that I do not know. I have been sheltered most of my life, which causes things that would be considered basic to other people to scare me. After analyzing my anxious tendencies, I came to the conclusion that the root of my anxiety comes from having seperation anxiety from my Mother after my Father passed away, which made me scared to talk to people, resulting in speech anxiety. My main fear with my speech anxiety is that I will receive a bad grade on my speech or not do well enough academically. I strive

Although there is a plethora of mental illnesses such as depression, anxiety, and alcoholism that run rampant in my family; I never spoke about mental illness with either of my parents until I was diagnosed with social anxiety, OCD, and panic disorder at 18. At that age I wasn’t even aware that anxiety was more than just feeling nervous or that it was a treatable diagnosis. After describing the symptoms of what I now know to be a panic attack to my general doctor, she referred me to a psychiatrist who prescribed me three pills, two were for anxiety, and one which was for my panic attacks.

When I was about twelve, I self diagnosed myself with anxiety. I was at a river in Austin with my mom and my two aunts. At that age, I was insecure about everything that had to do with my body. “Come on, get in!” I heard my over enthusiastic aunt yell from the dirty, brown water. I wanted to get in, but my mind was telling me, “Everyone is going to think your body is ugly”, and “Don’t get in, just sit and wait for them to come back”, so that’s what I did.

received from nurses. Slowly during these times, I started to realize this is what I want to do,

What will it take for them to realize what truly goes on inside our brains. Sticking out like a sore thumb or a lost shoe in the center of the highway. Anxiety is like not being able to breathe even being outside. I wish I could somehow explain the science behind how they make me feel. I got my first dose of anti-depressants when I was twelve years old. An artificial happiness that “worked”. The drugs never worked. But doesn’t mean a goddamn thing about being depressed! Sometimes the medications didn’t work because I was already happy, but people have to dig deeper to find out what the problem is. When someone takes their own life, how are we supposed to react? Are we supposed to think it’s just sad? Taking your own life is an ugly side of

¨ Good Good... my mom and I went to the museum and went shark watching.¨