It was early and swelteringly hot when it hit me like a bag of bricks. The five phases of grief zipped through my head, and I didn’t know which one to choose. The news that I had  been waiting for was in front of me, in large bold print, as if it was insisting that it is there to stay and that there is nothing I can do to change it. It made sure I knew it was a mark that would linger; screamed that I was unredeemable.

 Breaths became harder to release. I’ve had inklings in the past that I may suffer from anxiety, but  breathing had never been a problem before. Why was it now? Hands laid on my back, but I’m  not sure if they were to help with breathing or for comfort. 

 I walked up to my room and laid in bed for hours. I fell asleep- or at least did my very best  to. Any sort of resistance failed and tears fell.That day, the sun rose, the sun set, night settled in, and I still couldn’t stop  the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Small talk and desperate chatter from the ones I loved were white noise to the voices screaming in my head. What am I going to do now? How can I…?  Where did I go wrong? Will things be alright? Why did I put myself through this? Why did I sign myself up to do this again? Can I just disappear forever? 

I hoped they wouldn’t have, but those bricks sank me down to rock bottom. 

*** 

 I believe it was three days of self-inflicted punishment. Of no eating. My reasoning behind it was that my energy and effort seemingly aren’t worthwhile so there is no need for it. Sunlight was  fragmented by my window screen and forced my eyelids to open those mornings after. Movement couldn’t be coerced, not by anything. Afternoon would creep in, and I would know that this is ridiculous; I would tell myself that I have to get over it and get a move on, that I have to be productive but there was no use. I visualized my legs swinging to the left side of the bed, shifting my weight so that I could stand and walk somewhere, anywhere. I just couldn’t do it. All I could do was lounge and become the poster melancholy person in everyone’s lives. And after a while of willpower not being enough and no mythical person coming to rescue me, I figured that I deserved it. 

My family really did try to help. In the early stages of my mourning, my sisters took me out to a  nice restaurant and insisted that the bill was on them and to enjoy myself. However, it was during the three-day fast of guilt, so their requests were futile. The drive back with the wind in my hair and sights of nature made things better for a while, it made me think that my days could be more than just wet cheeks on pillows. I arrived back home with a whiff of optimism. I reached for a beloved book on my bedroom floor when a memento of the past became eye-level with me. The whiff blew away and was replaced by gray smoke and rolling thunder. It came flooding  back ﹘ memories of good times and good people who had faith in me; moments spent on this one aspiration, my passionate nights of little sleep and lots of dreaming, the excitement, my anticipation, my innocence, how what I did was a waste. I fell to my knees, closed my eyes and  wept. I don’t remember when I opened them back up again. 

Time went on without any avail to the mental turmoil in my brain. I was stuck in every regard and my past was quicksand. By the final week of summer, I resented the universe for not giving me enough time to mend, given my return back to school and my concerned mother wanting  something to change. I unfortunately couldn’t give her that. 

FALL 

 My second nightmare inevitably happened: School had started up. I dreaded it. Every weekday morning, I woke up with dread. It was as if the universe truly hated me; I was surrounded by people who were either ignorant, vain, uber-competitive or superficial. Nothing felt real; there was nothing to look forward to. 

 One particular topic ran up and down my brain all day long. One particular fixation. One  particular truth I couldn’t bring myself to accept. It was what I knew I had to avoid like the  plague, or I would just break down. 

I can’t bring it up. It can’t be mentioned. Nothing related to it can be talked about. 

I, of course, didn’t have a back-up plan in case it was brought up. 

Everything in my life was just fragmented. Everything in my life was so gray. Physically, the  walls, the people and hallways ﹘ the colors became so muted overnight. The weather cooled, but internally, I was hot. I was suffocating. And it didn’t help that every single person in my life either wanted or needed something from me. 

Maybe I need help. 

But there were some moments that were gleaming and even elicited a smile!

I don’t need help! 

For the first time in months, I found myself making a joke. Two warm sets of eyes were on me and their lips were curled into a smile. It was before the punchline when I caught a ghost of my past making a sharp turn around the corner. And just like that, all the wind got knocked out of me. My stomach gnarled, and the thought of throwing up began to feel very relevant. The warm eyes shifted to concern, but I brushed it off and finished the joke, happy to be of service. They chuckled, and I stalked towards the opposite end of the hallway, clutching my stomach while breathing in and out rapidly. 

I got sucked back in. 

Assignments started to pile up, and no amount of money could have made me care about them.  Doing them would make me a puppet: skilled but devoid of any true feelings or thoughts behind  the action. In my dreams, I began to reminisce about the time when I was bright-eyed and  optimistic, when I was eager to engage and cared so much about what I submitted. 

You know now the danger in that, the back of my head whispered. 

There wasn’t any opposing voice in response. 

Every time I desired for the papers to rise and online tasks to collect, my productivity kicked into  overdrive, and they were submitted before deadlines. Old habits apparently die hard. They  received overwhelmingly positive feedback. I resented it; I had turned into a puppet. 

There was really no joy in living with a mindset like this. I was still in denial about my mental  decline, holding on to the idea of a mentality-transplant with a snap of a finger. In hindsight, that  was… quite a fallacy. 

One Friday afternoon, I came back home after another annoying day of school and decided to sit  in front of my television, hoping to watch something interesting. The moment I sat down,  it was like something took hold of me. I took a big breath out and continued to sit.

There were  movements and varying colors from the TV set, the house was slightly cold, and my siblings  may have had late night plans, and I continued to sit. There wasn’t a thing in my mind- a show  capturing my attention, a book, a phone screen ﹘I continued to sit. Still, in the same position. It was eerily silent for a while. I checked my oven clock at one point, and in a bright green tint, it read 5:19 AM. The morning room window displayed early sights of dawn. 

I stayed up for a full 24 hours. 

“Maybe I am not well.” I admitted aloud with no one else around. 

WINTER 

My big fear did come true: It was brought up. It completely caught me by surprise. The very  thing I couldn’t face was brought up and eventually, one or two expectant faces were turned to me, waiting for an answer to a seemingly casual question. I didn’t address them; I 

became hard of hearing and flimsily asked the teacher if I could use the bathroom. It was there  that I dug my head into my hands and became an incomprehensible blubbering mess. 

I hate how I transformed myself into being a person so put-together, to being a person that cries all the time. I can’t grasp anything and I… I…

Suddenly, my breathing completely failed. My inability to breathe in and out resulted in my  balance against the wall slipping. I dropped to the floor and did whatever I could to gain some sort  of control. The following breaths were shaky. Like every other aspect of my life. Denial was long gone. 

I should let someone in. 

I checked my pockets to find my phone, but it dawned on me that I left it in the back of the classroom, in my backpack. 

I can’t go back there. 

Looking at my shoes the entire time, I made the tedious walk to the principal’s office and asked the receptionist if I could borrow the telephone. 

“Yes, baby, of course you can. It’s in the corner right there.” 

I picked up the handset and dialed the only mobile number I knew by heart.  “Hello?” My mom’s voice filled my ears after three rings. 

After finding some privacy, I imperfectly told her about what I was going through, of my mental roadblocks, panic attacks and insomnia that has been weighing on me for what feels like a lifetime. Being articulate during this difficult conversation was almost impossible, and I hoped she’d understood what I had managed to get out. She listened until she was instinctively sure I was done talking. 

“Bridelle?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I am so glad you told me about this. You have to talk to me about these things.” A single tear fell down my eye. 

She continued to talk to me with sympathy, empathy and truth in her voice. For a while, I  listened as she explained to me how life can be incredibly difficult and complicated with  examples from her past. She went on to promise me that I would always have her. 

“You are smart. You are kind and amazing. You are going to be okay.” 

I sniffled and quietly nodded in response. She told me how her day was so far, and some parts of  her morning made me laugh. It was nice to hear myself laugh. Eventually, she asked if there was  anything else I needed to get off my chest. I said no. 

“Okay. Thank you for calling me. I will see you soon. Love you.” 

“Love you.”

SPRING 

All I remember about that spring was laughter. Just a lot of laughter. The people I thought  were just acquaintances were suddenly more than that, almost out of the blue ﹘ like they came around at the perfect time. I didn’t really understand how they could have stuck around me  from when I was practically lifeless to that moment, but by the time May flowers were blooming,  we had formed inside jokes and shared deep secrets. I restabilized relationships with others that I  thought I lost forever when I was drinking my metaphorical poison all alone. 

I made sure to talk to my siblings (who were away in college) frequently, and often about my own college-bound journey. I applied to so many schools and got waitlisted from a few highly esteemed ones. All I knew was that I was really excited about the future. 

Whenever I was free, I had a marvelous time creating essays with one of the teachers I had at the time. After submitting them to a few organizations, several won in competitions with critical acclaim. There was something magical about the process; I was almost like a curator or a maestro, collecting various parts from my readings and background to form a paper of something new. She guided me in the best possible way through it all. It’s a memory that I will take with me and cherish forever. 

Finally, a couple of the ghosts I thought were phantoms of haunting were actually just kind individuals under a jaded light. Strangely, my befuddled mind imagined there to be animosity or  some friction when there was none. Tentatively, I made my peace with them and wished for all the best. For the sake of reopening old wounds, I did the best I could do. 

The tossing of high school graduation caps and the falling of confetti was enough to close the  chapter of depression and anguish, and begin a new one of freedom and fresh insight. I am glad to know now that if I were to get lost, I would be okay.