If you have anxiety like I do, you know exactly what it’s like to have a job working with the public and enduring the torture of the demon that's forever chewing at the back of your brain. It's called anxiety, not just nervous butterflies, but the full on medically diagnosed kind complete with gross tasting pills and days spent comatose wrapped in a blanket. I usually end up running on a script at work to ward off the lightning filled clouds hovering over me ready to fill me with panic. By running on a script, I mean saying the same things to everyone who walks in, going through the same motions, doing the same things in the same order. It sounds a bit like OCD to anyone who doesn't understand anxiety, but I assure you, I despise running on a script. I only do it because I know it keeps me from flying off the handle. I know how to keep myself going, but my customers really don't know what's up with me or why I'm 'rude' and seem disconnected. Personally, it's even harder working in a small town where the customers are the same people day in and day out.

If I had a dime for every time a customer walked away frustrated and yelling because I was on the verge of a panic attack and barely responsive, I wouldn't have to work a minimum wage job that amps up my anxiety. The sheer volume of people who can't recognize mental illnesses baffles and saddens me. I've been called 'strange', 'backwards' and 'stupid' to name a few. I've been treated like a child, like I have a severe mental defect besides anxiety and as if I wasn't even there. Today for example, a woman who has always seemed strange to me told me, "I need mine,"

I stared blankly at her, frozen. She was the same woman who previously had become very hostile towards me when I apologized for something - whatever it was it was so insignificant that can't remember what I apologized for. And yet the memory of her anger and hostility still echoes in my mind.

Instantly when she said that, my guard went up. Anxiety gnawed past the dull of Xanax and Paxil and I frowned. "Your... what?"

Exasperated, she set her purse on the counter, "My cigarettes - you remember don't you?" Behind her, my manager and another customer were chatting pleasantly.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I have so many people come in here every day, it's nearly impossible for me to remember absolutely everyone -" At that, she turned to my manager as if I no longer existed and threw her hands up.

"Now how am I supposed to respond to that?"

I'm sure you can imagine the rest of the story and cringe at every possible outcome your mind unveils. But the real answer to that woman's question is, "How do you react to someone with anxiety? With compassion and as much understanding as you can. I believe that is the best way."

Of course, I didn't get the chance to say that - not while the monster had its teeth in my brain. The monster whispers in my ear that everything awful that happens around me is my fault. It says that I am a failure, a screw up, that I amount to barely a grain of sand. And yet I am aware that it is telling fallacies and I try to fight it every day. But when I'm working with the public, I come off as short, rude and meek. I limit human contact and talking because it overwhelms me. I turn the radio up so I can focus on something else other than the noise. It isn't my fault that I'm made broken. I fight it more than anyone will ever know. My only hope is that someday the general public will understand and be more kind to people like me.