I was on campus when the paramedics arrived. 

I don’t know who called them or how long I had been sitting on the cold concrete ground. But I was glad to see the flashing lights because that meant I no longer bore the responsibility of having to keep myself upright.

I smiled meekly at the medics as they wheeled me onto the ambulance. It was a panic attack. Again.

I knew how to deal with panic attacks, I got them all the time. I was no stranger to the waves of sheer terror that made my heart feel like it was going to explode. Nor was I a stranger to the trembling, shaking, and feeling short of breath. 

But this time, it was different. I wasn’t just feeling ‘short of breath.’ I was out of breath.

My vision blurred and my head pounded as I gasped for air. I could see my hands trembling and clenching into claws. I couldn’t control it. My fingers twitched and folded into my palms. I couldn’t control anything. My fingers, hands, arms, and legs were tingling with a sensation I cannot describe. I was just out of control. And I felt like I was unraveling.

***

Growing up, I was an avid reader and writer. I started reading romance novels at the age of 12 and they completely changed how I saw my world. Flowers weren’t just flowers. They were symbols of love. Written letters between my grandparents were no longer irrelevant and a waste of space. They were romantic exchanges between lovers. 

I fantasized about what life would be like if I had a boyfriend. And I had so desperately wanted the fictional boys to come to life. 

From grade school to middle school, my head was always buried in a book. I always had my hair up in a pony tail so it wouldn’t cover the words I needed to devour. I never looked up, never glanced at the world around me, never really interacted with my peers. 

I wasn’t interested in the boring world around me. I was encapsulated by my own world of love, and beauty, and joy. 

One day, a boy came up to me. He was one of the popular kids. I had never spoken to him before, nor had I ever looked him in the eye. He tapped my shoulder and I jumped, surprised at any kind of physical contact (since I was always alone, reading). 

He held his palms up, and backed up, apologizing for startling me. This was the first time a boy had approached me ever. I stared at him, not knowing what to say. But what he said to me, I will remember forever.

“You’d look prettier with your hair down,” he said. Then, he left.

I remember mulling over his words again and again. Prettier. He said prettier. Which implied he thought I was already pretty. 

I went home that night, confused but giddy and excited. A boy noticed me! And one of the popular ones too. Maybe I could have my own romance story, similar to the books I had read.

The next morning, my hair was down and I sprayed a little bit of perfume before I left for school. He always got to school earlier than I did. He’d wait for me. He’d kiss my cheek. 

I’m not sure how it happened. I suppose it started with a smile. Shoulder taps. Hugs. I never initiated anything, afraid I would do something wrong. 

The moment I decided to surrender my control to him was the moment I stopped fighting for myself.

The truth is, I was uncomfortable with many of the things we did. I didn’t like the way it felt. His breath was always too hot and I just felt clumsy and awkward. But we did everything he wanted because I thought that that was the “right thing to do” and because “everyone was doing it.” But they weren’t.

I was popular by default because I was his girlfriend. I somehow turned from nerdy bookworm to strange girlfriend to… slut. 

I wasn’t just popular. I was notorious. Jealous girls would follow me around, and try to take exposing pictures of me while I was in the bathroom. I was being bullied and I didn’t know how to handle it.

So, I stuck with my boyfriend. The mean girls were less mean when we all hung out together anyway. But I knew they thought I was a whore.

At one point, I asked myself why I was doing this. I didn’t think my boyfriend was attractive. He was dismissive and demeaning and he wasn’t a nice person at all. He was misogynistic. Obsessed with himself. Nothing like the boys in the books I read. But he was all I had. 

And I loved him nonetheless. I let him do anything he wanted even though they were things that didn’t feel good or right or something that I understood. 

I came to realize later, that what I had thought was love was just the curiosity and excitement about the idea of love. I didn’t know what love was but I should’ve known that it wasn’t this.

He asked me if his friends could take pictures of us kissing. To commemorate the moment, he said. I was extremely uncomfortable. I felt like throwing up. I didn’t want to kiss him, let alone have an audience or any sort of “commemoration.” But I was 12. And he was popular. I didn’t know that I could say no. I already did everything he wanted, might as well keep it going, right?

I made his friends promise to keep those pictures a secret. 

I was heartbroken when he dumped me later that day. Not for him, but for myself. Turns out, our whole relationship, whatever we had, was a lie. It was fake. He had made a bet with his friends. All they wanted were the pictures.

I went home that day, exhausted. I lost so much of myself in a toxic relationship that I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I just wanted to sleep.

That same night, our pictures were posted and reposted everywhere on Facebook. I was angry at myself for being so naive. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Why did I do that? Why did I let him do that to me?

I begged him and his friends to take them down, but they wouldn’t. And poof, just like that, all my dignity disappeared. That’s when I heard her for the first time. 

You’re so stupid. This is so fucking humiliating. Stupid, naive, little girl. Everyone hates you. You’re a slut. The world would be better off without you. 

The voice in my head got louder and louder as the years passed by. I was scared the first time I heard her. She was me. But she was invasive and I could only hear her when I was distressed or disappointing. I wished there were a switch to turn off my brain, to turn off my thoughts, but there wasn’t.

The frequent invasive thoughts started dictating who I was. I felt myself slowly disappearing. I didn’t want to feel that way. But my mind was so loud and the world was so fast. 

You’re ugly. No one likes ugly girls. 

I became self-conscious and I started to care about my appearance and how others perceived me. 

I stopped eating. Or when I did, I would run to the bathroom to stick two fingers down my throat. The voice was loud during those times. More, more! Get all the food out of your system. You disgusting fat pig. And I listened. 

I stopped reading. The world was dull and I felt lifeless. A light had gone out of me and I wasn’t sure how to get it back. I didn’t even know if I wanted to. I was depressed and numb. I no longer cared about books.

She got louder and spoke more frequently. Towards the end of eighth or ninth grade, I surrendered myself completely to my thoughts. She’s right, I’d agree. I am stupid. I am a fat pig. I am worthless. 

The more I listened to her, the more people started to like me. I had learned how to put on make up, I was skinny, and I hung out with kids other people deemed were “cool.” Girls came to me for advice on how I stayed so skinny and boys started asking me out.

I felt dead inside but at the same time, I was proud of myself. People started to like me because I was skinny, stylish, pretty. Of course, I didn’t see myself that way — she wouldn’t let me. Stupid, ugly pig, she would repeat over and over. Worthless, worthless, worthless. 

Her voice blended into mine and everything she said, I believed. 

My head was foggy and my thoughts weren’t my own. Something was wrong. Did everyone feel the same way as me? Why did I feel so empty?

I stumbled upon the topic of mental health in a book I was trying to read. I strongly related to the main character of the book, “13 Reasons Why.” She kills herself. I didn’t want to end up like her.

I started looking for more books explaining mental health in hopes of an explanation for what was happening to me. 

She was always quiet when I read. I liked the quiet. But I was tired all the time and I eventually stopped reading. I stopped writing. I stopped crying. I stopped feeling.

That’s when I first started hurting myself. I’d drag a sharp-edged metal ruler against my arm, pressing the sharpest part hard into my skin. She would encourage me. Good. Press harder. This is control. You are in control. I knew what I was doing was wrong but it was the only thing that made me feel. It was the only control I had over my life. 

Over the years, my thoughts would spiral as I cut myself. Keep going. This isn’t pain. It’s control. My thoughts unraveled further and I felt like I was untethered to the world. I wasn’t here nor there, I was simply existing. 

I didn’t hurt myself because I wanted to die. I hurt myself because I wanted to feel alive. My thoughts spiral me into a dark hole and I rescue myself by cutting. It’s strange to say that but it’s true.

I left for boarding school in 11th grade. I thought that if I came to America, where people are more accepting of mental health, I would get better. And I did. For a while, anyway.

I was put on medication, I saw a therapist or the school counselor regularly. It wasn’t so bad. But I still felt untethered. I was floating around a sea of people, only we weren’t in Bangkok anymore, we were in Connecticut. 

During my senior year, a girl killed herself. She hanged herself in the woods next to my dorm. 

I remember seeing an ambulance come and go. I remember throwing up in the bathroom and crying while praying in the chapel. I didn’t know her that well. But she was always kind to me and she was always the life of the party. 

No one knew she was depressed. The school held a memorial service for her. Everyone mourned her loss and her parents, her poor parents, were absolutely devastated. They looked empty. 

I recognized the emptiness in their eyes. They were nearly identical to my own. But what had I lost? I felt guilty and pathetic for being depressed when her parents had a valid reason to mourn.

The impact of her death washed over all of us in a sea of sorrow. Friends checked up on each other more frequently. My friends checked up on me. 

The beginning of my anxiety came when I started dreaming of her lifeless body, swinging against a tree in the cold of New England. My dreams were unsettling. Rotting corpses, severed limbs, and decay were frequently on my mind.

I tried not to think about those things, but the more I tried, the worse it became. My breathing grew rapid, in fear, in terror. I felt out of control again. I started getting panic attacks. My head spun and my mind seemed to unravel while I struggled to breathe.

Depression was a constant – it blanketed everything but anxiety and its attacks, they were something else. They were crippling. 

I was unable to breathe, unable to feel my fingers or toes — I could only feel my heart beat faster and faster like it wanted to jump out of my chest. 

***

I am a senior in college now. I still have depression. I still have anxiety. They no longer cloud my mind and heart like they used to. There are still bad days. Relapse days. Panic attack days. But they always pass. And they will continue to pass. This, I know now. I have been clean for nearly three years now.

But it didn’t just happen overnight. It took work. It took help. I take the right amount of medication every day, and I see my therapist once a week. I still hear her voice sometimes, quiet, but still there. 

She whispers my worst fears and biggest insecurities. She is invasive and unwanted. She is me. Her voice is my voice. My thoughts. 

People would be better off without you. You’re nothing. You are a waste. A burden. An inconvenience. An afterthought.

She is me. But she doesn’t make me who I am.

***

When I had the panic attack on campus last fall, I felt out of control. I was spinning and unraveling. But I knew that the feeling wasn’t going to last. It was horrible and I couldn’t breathe. I was scared and alone but when the paramedics came, I knew I was going to be okay.

I hear my own voice now, it’s stronger than ever — it counteracts the voice that used to put me down and hurt me. I’m okay. I’m okay. Everything will be fine. Just breathe. It’s okay.

There will always be days when my anxiety or depression gets too heavy for me to bear, but I realize now that it isn’t a burden I have to bear on my own. I’m not alone.

As I sat on the cold pavement, watching the ambulance lights flash blue and red, I thought to myself: I am okay. This is temporary. I am loved. I am worth it. I am not alone.