Narrative Essay Sample about Anxiety

Gasping for breath, curled up on the ground in tears, unable to think straight. Everything closing in around you, trapping you. The feeling that you will never be better. As a child, I experienced this at least twice a week. The Impact anxiety had on my life shaped me and made me who I am now. Overcoming my anxiety was not easy, but most struggles in life will not be easily defeated. 

From a very young age, probably three or four, I was always anxious. My mom noticed a little but never enough to do something about it. She just thought it was my personality. Wherever she went, I had to be with her. I followed her to the bathroom, stood right by her in the kitchen, and would even ask my dad tons of times when she was going to be home from work every day. I was scared to be without her because I always felt anxious. As a little girl, I obviously didn't know how to voice that, so she never really knew what was wrong. My anxiety mostly revolved, and still somewhat does, around sickness. More specifically throwing up. Whenever my stomach hurt a little, or maybe I was just too full from dinner or I had heartburn, It would send me into a full panic attack. I was terrified I was going to throw up. I don´t know where the initial fear originated, but all I know is I couldn't even think about puke without panicking. 

My diagnosis was not determined until first grade near the age of seven. I attended a small private Catholic school in Spokane called St. Patricks at the time. My wonderful, grey-haired, sweet smiled teacher is actually the one that told my mom she thought I had anxiety. ¨She shows a lot of the same signs my daughter does¨  she told my mom. From that point on, everything changed. My parents started doing research and found doctors and therapists. We thought I was finally going to get the help I needed.

My anxiety was hard on my family, my mom mostly. After first grade, I started to get worse. My mom would call around for hours trying to find an experienced child doctor that could help me. One day after making calls with no luck, she pulled over on the side of the highway and cried. She sat there feeling completely helpless, she hated watching me suffer and she hated that there was nothing she could do. But then, her phone rang. It was Rockwood Clinic returning her call. Still in tears, she answered the phone, waiting to be disappointed again. But she wasn´t. In fact, Rockwood was conducting a study on anxiety medication and they wanted me to be part of it. She agreed because at this point she wanted to do anything she could to help me. Out of 100 participants in the study, they gave 50 a sugar pill and 50 the anxiety pill. Every 2 weeks I would have an appointment to see if the pill was working. And every appointment they gave me 40 dollars. The pill seemed to work at first and we thought I was finally getting better. But as I got older, my anxiety got worse it seemed to be working less and less every day. Eventually, the study ended and I still will never know what pill I had been taking. 

At the age of eight, my anxiety hit its peak. 2nd grade was probably the worst. I remember my small classroom, the wooden desks that the tops opened, revealing my binders and notebooks. The old, scratchy, plastic carpet that I would reluctantly walk across every day. The big whiteboard and posters on the walls, full of inspirational quotes, math jokes, and English rules. However, none of these things made going to school easier. My oldest sister had to bribe me with gifts. If I went to school every day that week, she would give me a present. Even then I still didn't want to go. I was so afraid to be away from my parents I would have a panic attack almost every day. It got to the point where my dad would have to come to school with me and sit in the back of the class every day just so I would stay calm. This story may seem dramatic and maybe even over the top, but my anxiety was not a joke, and I really needed help. School wasn't the only place it happened either. There was a time when every night I wouldn't even stay in bed for 10 minutes before I got up in tears, afraid I was going to be sick. Every night my mom would say the same thing: ¨It's okay, you’re not going to puke, I promise.¨ 

¨Are you sure?¨ I would ask hesitantly.

¨Yes, I'm sure¨ she would always say. This didn't always help though. I would reluctantly walk back downstairs to my room, not even lasting another 10 minutes before I would come back up in tears, hyperventilating. And this went on for months. 

Eventually, I started to get better. We found an amazing therapist and Doctor that I saw once a week in Spokane. I still remember the therapy appointments. We would sit together in a room and play games and talk about anything. She helped me describe the way I felt during my panic attacks and how I could voice it to get better. She made me feel so safe and comfortable in the small dark office, a glowing yellow lamp in the corner next to a brown leather chair. The grey squishy couch in the middle of the room with a coffee table right in front, holding a bowl full of toys, cards, and other forms of entertainment. We never used the couch though, we would always sit on the floor like two friends, talking. This was a major turning point for me. I finally started a medication that actually worked. I took it every day until about fourth or fifth grade when I didn't need it anymore. I had finally learned how to deal with it, rationalize, and keep myself calm. As I matured it got easier, and that brings us to today. With my panic attacks very few and far between, I realized that my fear is irrational, and puking is not something I should be that scared of. Even now when I have a panic attack I don´t run to my mom in tears, I don't hyperventilate, and I can deal with it by myself. I usually will just sit on my bed, taking in deep breaths to calm my shaking, and telling myself that I will be fine and I'm worrying for nothing. I have come a long way since elementary school and I believe that I can still continue to get better as time goes on.

Living with anxiety shaped me. It made me who I am now. It made me strong and perseverant. Growing up and healing was not easy, but if I could go back and do it again, I would, with maybe less torture on my poor parents. Anxiety doesn't have to hold you back. If someone or you are struggling, you don't always have to. You can get help and you can heal because I know from my personal experience that it might not be easy, and there might be a time when you think you will never be fine, but you can be. Anxiety sucks, but with the motivation and the willingness to heal, you can. What I went through will always be a part of who I am, and I will always hold my experience very close to me because It was me for a very long time. Now, I am no longer defined by my anxiety and I never will be again. This is how I overcame my anxiety.