I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get the words out. I was sweating. A cold sweat. My mind was a blur.

I was 13 years old when I had my first panic attack. I was in 8^th grade history. We were going around the room reading passages from the textbook. When it was my turn, I was caught off guard. I was a good student. I hated getting in trouble. I hated doing anything wrong. It was my turn, but I lost track of where we were because I was talking to the person next to me.

My reaction was panic. A panic that I could not escape and could not hide from. A panic that exposed me. Everyone was staring. No one knew what to say, including the teacher.

Somehow, I made it through the rest of that class. I don’t remember if we went on break after that or if the next person started reading. I remember the stares and I remember hoping a friend could convince me it wasn’t that bad or that noticeable, but the damage was done.

Once you know your body can react that way, you don’t forget it, especially when you felt like it came out of nowhere. In hindsight, it is now obvious I was a ticking time bomb, but at the time, it didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t find a clear reason for why one moment I could read aloud in front of my peers without fear and then the next I couldn’t.

There was plenty about my life that did not feel normal with my mom being sick, but at school, I could try to fit in and, for the most part, I did. The bullying the year before by those oh so great friends of mine seemed like a fluke. “I’m sure they were just kidding around.” “It was all in good fun.” Things you tell yourself to avoid seeing the truth.

Luckily, academically, I thrived. It felt good to be a pretty smart kid. It felt good to get praise from teachers. Even if I wasn’t super popular, at least I could feel like one of those kids with promise.

The moment the panic started in that 8^th grade history class, any ounce of normalcy I was hanging on to drifted away. School was no longer safe. Nor was my voice. Nor was standing out academically if it meant using my voice.

Mentally, I deteriorated. The next four years were hell.

In my head, the struggle was loud. So loud. There was no time for rest when your mind was racing, when your thoughts were jumping around a mile a minute.

On the outside, it was quiet. So quiet. And lonely, so fucking lonely.

At this point, I think it is important to share some words of caution. Never underestimate someone’s ability to pretend. I was a master at pretending to “be okay” or at least okay enough to not cause anyone to seriously worry. At times I was even perceived as strong. At that time, it was the most important thing for me to fit in. To not stand out. Well, to not stand out in a way that would draw negative attention. The kind where an entire room is staring and laughing at me.

But on the inside, I was screaming. How could you not hear it?

On the inside, I needed you. Your comfort. Your reassurance. Why weren’t you there in all the ways I needed you to be there?

For the rest of high school, I spent most of my classes barely learning. I was too busy trying to predict what would happen in class. At first, I mostly feared the classes where reading aloud was likely to happen. Either freshman or sophomore year I mustered up the courage to talk to a teacher about my mounting fear of speaking and he worked with me to try it in doses.

I attempted a presentation. I think we were supposed to read a poem. It happened again. Noise came out, but it wasn’t words. It almost sounded like laughter.

And then I stopped trying to face the fear. I could only run from it.

My teacher didn’t push it more. Instead, I was skipped over without an explanation. In future classes, I would talk to those teachers when necessary. I was still a pretty good student. There were workarounds. Presentations where only the teacher was in the audience.

I will never forget when a guy I had a crush on asked if I had already presented in front of the class. I lied. I said yes. I told him he was asleep. I’m not sure he believed me, but the girl who heard this conversation did not. She wasn’t one to fall asleep in class.

I felt like a fool. I hated this life. I felt better knowing I could swallow pills to end it and there were moments I was close.

I was trapped inside my body. A body that was betraying me. A body that was drawing attention to itself and not the type of attention any teenager wants.

If you are wondering how it is easy for me to stick my fingers down my throat, how it is easy to hurt myself, I suspect this is in large part why. I’ve spent years feeling nothing but pure hatred for my body. It wasn’t because it didn’t look a certain way. It was because it didn’t act a certain way.

There is more to share about these years, but for tonight, this is all I have in me. These memories are painful. They exhaust me.  In some ways, this post has felt more difficult to share than admitting to a decade and a half long eating disorder.

I’ll leave you with some advice or maybe it is a request, especially given all that is happening in the world. Be kind. To yourself and to those around you. Pretending to be okay is not unique to me. It is a way of life for far too many. Behind the pretending, the hiding, the fake smiles, or even the hurtful words coming out of their mouth is pain. Pain that goes so deep you feel like you might drown. Remember that when life is not beautiful or ordinary, it is painful.

You deserve some grace. And so does the person next to you.

Cue ‘OK Not To Be OK’ by Marshmello and Demi Lovato