Last week, I ventured with my friend, Melody, for an overnight stay at her family’s home in Apple Valley, California. Apple Valley is located near some other small, close to unknown desert towns, such as Victorville and Barstow, California. If you're to visit any of these cities, be sure to bring sunscreen and a hat, and have air conditioning in your car. I’ve been out to these parts of California only a handful of times, but each time they make an incredible impression upon me, as well as my perspective of what is beautiful, both aesthetically and philosophically.

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There is something oddly menacing about the space and silence of the desert.

A region that is truly sublime, its beauty found in very cerulean (or at sunset, sherbet rose) and vast skies, is equally terrifying in its sheer openness, and quiet as it is breathtaking.

Walking along a near empty road with Melody and her small, fluffy dog, Dusty, on a street that resembles a maybe post-apocalyptic American suburbia, a hint of smoke permeates the dry air.

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Hours earlier, I was preparing for my small trip by trying to locate what clothes I wanted to bring (or lack thereof, for sake of the heat) and beginning to panic at the thought of having to pack.

I have packed for trips both short and long countless times. I couldn’t tell you why this particular time was so anxiety-inducing. But at any rate, I decided to quit the packing endeavor and move on to taking a shower in an effort to be ready to leave on time.

Each movement, from turning on the water to putting a quarter-sized drop of shampoo in my palm was painstaking and nerve wracking. I began to rush to complete my tasks so I could move on to the next step.

Just get out and get dressed, get out and get dressed.

From shower to closet felt like a century. T-shirt to body nearly made me hurl. By the time I was dressed and sitting, my breathing was labored and difficult to maintain.

My mother asked me a question from across the room about not turning the shower off and in my mind, I was under attack. Full-blown attack. Fight or flight was in full effect. I retorted something curt and nasty to shut down the conversation, explaining that my anxiety was through the roof. Sometimes, one of the worst things for me and my anxiety is being so cognizant of my panic attacks and moments of severe anxiety, and still feeling helpless at those times. Unfortunately, Mom responded with something about being crazy, and without hesitation, my panic attack became a complete internal meltdown.

Keep moving, I told myself. Keep pushing, you’re fine, just put some makeup on. That will make you feel better.

But as I powdered my brow bone, tears rolled down my cheeks. My heart was beating too hard and created a sickly, uncomfortable feeling in my chest.

I simply couldn’t calm down.

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The night before, I had awoken from a nap in a drenched sweat, feeling feverish and panicked, I made it to the shower to cool off and calm down. At the time, I associated this freakish rise in body temperature to a migraine from earlier. However, looking back, I see now that even the migraine was self-induced from all day anxiety.

The moment of a complete meltdown was not random, it was not crazy, but a result of a two to three day buildup of social and emotional anxiety that surmounted when I was presented with simple, daily tasks to complete. At the worst point of the meltdown, I felt as if I needed to crawl out of my skin. Inwardly, the sky was falling. From the outside, I’m sure I merely looked weepy and red in the face. This episode lasted for 30 endless minutes.

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Melody and I walk quickly down a hot, windy side street to see out across the valley towards the mountains: perhaps two or three miles away. Black plumes billowed from some source in the foreground of the mountain-scape. The smell of burnt wood tickled my nose as I breathed deep, taking in the silence and the expanse, seeing how small the point of fire was in regards to the overwhelming space around it, and yet how much the resulting black and toxic smoke loomed in the air.