In my junior year of high school, I woke up one morning to find myself feeling something I had never before felt. I was awake earlier than usual, and I was incredibly nervous about going to school that day, which was unusual because I had always loved school. I had learned how to study, so I always did well, and I challenged myself by being in all honors level courses. I was outgoing and extremely involved. I participated in every theater production my school put on, and I found my place on stage — it was where I was happiest.

But this particular day was different. It was during the fall, and I had no logical reason to be nervous. I just had a typical day ahead of me — class, then clubs, then play rehearsal. No tests. No quizzes. Just another day. So why couldn't I stop shaking? Although I was of age, I didn't want my license, so my dad always drove me to school. When I got into his truck, he noticed that I was quieter than usual but didn't seem to think much of it. I clutched my water bottle and stared out the window, wondering why I was feeling this way and pondering if I should tell him about it. I figured I shouldn't make any conclusions too soon. Maybe I'd wake up the next day and everything would be back to normal. Maybe I was just having a bad day. Maybe.

I took a deep breath before getting out of the truck, almost forgetting to say goodbye to my dad. He told me, as usual, to text him if I need anything. I got progressively more nervous as I watched his truck get further and further away. In that moment, it dawned on me: I needed him. But I knew if I said anything about the way I was feeling that he would worry way too much. He would want me to talk about everything, but I couldn't. How was I supposed to talk about something that I didn't understand? And how could I expect him to understand if I didn't know what to make of it myself? I got through school that day, not participating in class like I used to and having to leave several times to vomit in the bathroom. I knew something was seriously wrong when I couldn't get myself to eat lunch that day. The worst part was the looks that my friends gave me when they noticed that I wasn't eating anything. They expected an explanation from me, but I didn't have one to offer them. At play rehearsal that night, I could barely get my lines out. I wondered why I wasn't happy and comfortable on the stage like I always was. The stage was my home. The stage used to fix everything. What happened?

I went home that night, still silent about the way that I was feeling — still hoping it was just a bad day. But the darkness swept over me again when I couldn't eat dinner that night either. I insisted to my parents that I had had a big lunch at school and that I wasn't hungry, and they believed me. I went to bed feeling weak and exhausted but was unable to fall asleep. I kept composing texts to my dad, asking him to come talk to me or at least lay next to me, but I couldn't get myself to press send. I knew that he had to work the next day and that he didn't have time to deal with whatever these feelings were. Despite his constant reminders to come to him if I ever needed anything, I couldn't get myself to reach out. I stared at the ceiling the entire night, not sleeping for even a minute.

I eventually heard rustling downstairs and knew that it was time to get ready for school. My dad came up the stairs to my room, surprised that I was up so early. He asked me if I had slept well, and I assured him that I did. This cycle went on for almost a week before anyone noticed that something was seriously wrong with me. I guess I was just really good at hiding it. Whenever it was time to eat, I always made an excuse. But I knew that I could only hide it for so long. After about a week of feeling this way silently to myself, I cracked.

I was sitting next to my dad on our way to school, not having said a word, and I knew that he knew something was wrong. The closer we got to school, the more nervous I got. He was my safety, and he didn't even know it. As we pulled up to the school, I started shaking and dry heaving, and I couldn't speak. My dad seemed confused, and, in that moment, I knew that I would have to explain everything. He called over my friend who was walking into school and asked her to grab me some water. Great. Another person that I would have to explain this to. My dad moved his truck so he wouldn't be in the way of others, and I knew that it was my time to talk. At this point, I had no choice.

He asked me what had just happened, and all I knew to say was "I don't know, but it happens every day." I told him how I get so nervous that I make myself sick but that I don't know what I'm so nervous about. I saw the sympathy in his eyes, and I heard it in his voice. I knew that he was going to do everything he could to help me, but I was upset that I was so vulnerable. Even though part of me was relieved that I could finally talk about it, I didn't like the obligation that I felt to explain it. The more I talked about it, the more I realized how much of an issue this really was. Talking about it made it seem more real. I couldn't deny it anymore. It wasn't a series of bad days. It was my life.

For many mornings to follow, I couldn't make it to school. I noticed that since I had been open about it, it had only gotten worse. My dad would be driving to school, and I would have to tell him to turn around because the nervousness was just too much to handle. But I didn't want him to take me home because my mom had no idea that there was an issue at all — I had asked him not to tell her. Besides my skipping dinner, she hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary because I had worked so hard to hide it. So on these days that I couldn't face school, my dad took me to work with him. He owns a small car repair shop, and, over the next few weeks, I had become very familiar with it. He would spend most of his morning trying to help me eat and sleep. I didn't want to make a scene, so I spent a lot of my time in his truck parked outside his work, taking tiny bites of food and occasionally dozing off, which was actually a big accomplishment for me. I learned to appreciate small victories, like being able to swallow even a tiny mouthful. It was moments like that that gave me hope that I was going to be okay.