Worrier to Warrior

As a child, nothing made me want to grow up more than the negative thoughts that constantly tormented my mind. I have always been known as quite the worrier by my entire family. My parents discovered my high levels of anxiety from a very young age. This became fairly apparent when I used to scream and cry almost every day before getting on the bus, practically making myself sick. My blatant terror of human interaction became clear when my excited mother and father asked if I wanted to go to Disney World and my response was, “Definitely not. There are too many people, and I could die on those rides!” There are no words to describe how low my parents’ jaws dropped when they heard that response come out of their Disney Princess-obsessed nine-year-old’s mouth. Little to their surprise, this constant feeling of anxiety that I had always experienced never once wavered as I grew older. Even as a middle school student, I despised waking up during the week because it meant that I had to do the unthinkable: socialize. The day I decided to step out of my comfort zone to be a real teenager was the day that I would come to regret for the rest of my life.

I have never been an introvert despite my persistent fear of human interaction. I loved speaking up on ideas that I was completely confident about, and I always spoke up to do what I had to do to make it through the painstakingly long days. People loved talking to me. Little did they know how much of a burden being outspoken was to me. I had this constant inner dialogue telling me that I could mess up at any time, sound stupid, or even worse, vomit all over the person I was talking to! All of these things kept me striving for perfection. Although, nothing was worse than discovering that I HAD to be a people-pleaser. This has always made my parents very proud because I never got into any real conflicts, but this also happened to be my biggest downfall because I trust everyone regardless of his/her wrong-doings. My life changed drastically because of this inability to seek a lack of sincerity in a person.

On a beautifully white Friday night in December, my best friend Sarah had called me to join her for a little end-of-the-semester party. Because of my horrific fear of human contact, I was sure to ask her how many people were going to be there. The smaller the amount, the more willing I would be to go, and she knew this. To this day, I would love to believe that she did not know how big this party was going to be, but my soul convinced me otherwise when I walked into her average-sized, mossy green Dutch Colonial to discover that this was an absolute rager. It was too late; my ride was gone and I had found myself with my icy cold fingertips grasping onto her beaming and enticing door handle. My heart was screaming at me, “Allison, get out of there, call someone to pick you up, you don’t belong here,” but there I was, feet glued to her front porch, my body possessed by my mind, and the voice of my best friend on the other side of that portal-like brown door sounding like she was having the time of her life.

Taking the plunge, I finally twisted the door handle to enter her house with music thumping to the time of my heartbeat pounding in my chest. I could taste the fear that was forming a marble-sized lump in my throat. The lights were quite dim, and the first thing that came to my attention was Sarah’s blazing orange, amber hair. She was wearing her drink on top of her usual crop top with tiny short-shorts (leaving very little to the imagination) and hanging all over her new, mysterious, musician of a boyfriend. I wanted so desperately to walk over to her and have her calm my fears, but my pride pulled me to the kitchen where I could be alone and away from people; especially the person who may or may not have sabotaged my mental stability so that she could have another body fill her home with noise and chaos.

I sat there on my phone casually watching the madness move from people making out on the beat-up couch to a wave of noise and commotion ensue from the upstairs balcony where two bearded frat boys were having a beer funnel race.

“Never in a million years would I think to chug beer out of a funnel,” I whispered to myself while observing this madness with a disgusted grimace.

“Me neither, it honestly seems so horrible. You couldn't pay me enough to do it, ” a voice replied from the kitchen doorway.

My anxious, people-avoiding self almost went into tachycardia at the thought of someone witnessing my complete nerdiness. Timidly glancing up to this nicely dressed, pristine looking boy, I nodded in agreement, not to say anything else that could further my embarrassment. As usual, I avoided direct eye contact at all costs. He walked over and put a red plastic cup in front of me, perhaps inviting me to drink with him in hopes of stirring up conversation. If only he knew who I was...but then again, I didn't even know who I was that night either because I took that drink and let the alcohol burn its way through the lump in my throat. I immediately felt ashamed. I knew that I should not have been drinking, and I knew that it was too late to take it back. This boy could clearly see my disdain because he promptly spoke gently to me saying, “You don't have to feel guilty; isn't this what being a teen is all about?” Again, not mustering up the courage to speak, I nodded at him while he started walking away, mentioning something about getting me another one.

I could not move. My mind was frozen in my own body yet again. At this point, there was nothing going on inside of my head; my brain was filled with black, white and grey pixels like you see on the television when the signal goes out, only my pixels should have been a sign for me to get up and leave. I guess my anxiety-ensconced body did not comprehend that notion at this particular point in time. A paralyzing panic attack was consuming every inch of my body like the monster it is. Nothing that I did would allow me to cope and feel comfortable. I couldn't do anything but rest my head on the table and wait for the overwhelming terror and fear to pass over me like a winter blizzard.

The world seemed to be spinning; that's when I began to hear familiar footsteps from earlier. I wanted nothing more than to become as invisible as people generally treated me, but my head jerked up out of pure instinct. This boy's head cocked to one side.

“What's going on with you?” he asked me with somewhat of concern in his voice.

“I'm just having—a bit of a rough night, I'll—really be fine,” I hesitantly responded, not knowing whether or not I should be sharing any of this with this boy.

He grinned at me attempting to look sincere and said, “Take another drink, I promise, it always makes me feel so much better when I'm down.”

I took the drink from his slim fingers and put it up to my lips. The bubbles from the carbonation of whatever drink this was tickled my tongue and danced around in my mouth as I chugged almost the entire cup, hoping to get any relief from this torturous attack. It worked very well; I got a quick rush of adrenaline that pushed the anxiety away from my body. The boy rubbed my arm, hoping for some form of body contact, I would assume. He may have been trying to be comforting, but my entire mind, body and soul revolted his touch. I had no idea who this boy was, and this “gesture” was extremely unnecessary.

Almost as if he was expecting it, the boy picked up his phone to glance at it, and it immediately started singing a shrilling ring. He asked me to wait for a minute while he took this call into another room. That's when I began to feel uneasy and painfully exhausted. My immediate thought was, “panic attack part two.” My head started spinning unrelentlessly. I knew I needed to lay down because there was clearly something wrong with me. Stumbling my way down the hall, I found myself being escorted by the same boy who had given me the drink, the same boy who made me want to hide under a rock, into one of the bedrooms. Everything after this point is extremely foggy. The very last thing I remember, before it all went black, was my fighting his venomous kisses on the side of my neck and trying to sit up while he fought to keep me down.

The next thing that I can recall was waking up with bruises decorating my entire body and an undeniable feeling of absolute defeat. I could barely move, and it had nothing to do with the physical pain. I was broken. This boy had almost effortlessly broken me, and I wanted to fight so badly, but I couldn't. It was a feeling of destruction that no person or thing could ever possibly fix. My heart was shattered, and tears were pouring from my eyes, but I couldn't emotionally cry. My soul was torn apart, and I laid in the bed counting the bruises he had left on me, regretting every single decision I had made that night. I stayed in that bed almost the entire night, waiting for the grogginess and pain to finish consuming my being until I finally found the strength to get up and sneak my way out without the embarrassment of people seeing me this way.

Recounting the events that lead up to this dreadful night in my life, it has occurred to me that most of my error stemmed from a mental illness that went untreated for years. Had I been on the proper medication with the support that I have now, it is safe to say that this would have never happened. With the unconditional love and support that I have now, I am confident in saying that my healing process is almost complete. This monumental occasion in my life never once defined who I was or am; it did, however, allow me to explore a strength that I never knew I had. I love the warrior that I am today, and for that, I am forever grateful.