I had my first panic attack when I was in fifth grade. It was at my birthday party, actually. I was opening presents and everyone was talking and laughing and all the sudden couldn’t breathe. I was barely eleven years old and it was utterly terrifying.

In case anyone doesn’t know, anxiety is not a choice. Just like depression is not a choice. Or schizophrenia or being bipolar. It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. Just like any other organ of the body, the brain can get sick. Most people don’t experience this till adolescence or even adulthood. My brain got sick when I was really little. And trust me, if it were a choice, I never would have chosen it.

I’m not really sure when the anxiety actually started. The earliest I can remember is around first grade. A firefighter had come in to talk to us about fire safety in school and for whatever reason, it set me off. I would lie awake for hours, staring at the smoke alarm in my room. I don’t know what I would have done if it went off.

After fire came robbery. There were a few break ins in my town and so the fear of fire transitioned to a fear of someone breaking in. Instead of staring at the alarm I would stare at the window to make sure no one was there. One night I got so scared that I went into my parent’s room to sleep with them. My dad got up to go to the bathroom while my mom was talking me down and I didn’t see him leave. When he came back I saw his shadow first and automatically assumed my fear had come true. I screamed louder than I think I ever had or have since.

After robbery came thunder storms. I used to love watching them roll in through my patio door with my dad. But after a close call with a tornado at school, that changed. So much so, that by the end of that year I would beg my teacher to let me stay inside for recess if I even thought the clouds looked weird. And, whenever I would hear a thunder storm at night, I would run to my parent’s room. This lasted far longer than I would like to admit.

Instead of just moving on to the next one, they started to build on each other. In fifth or sixth grade I convinced myself that there was something wrong with me and that I was going to die. And then I convinced myself that everything was poisoned. Eventually, the fear of a break in came back and I would again lie awake at night hearing creaks and moans of the house thing that it was an intruder. Luckily, I had had my panic attacks under control.

Finally, my last year of high school came. The stress of moving, figuring out college, graduating early, and a new relationship I was in was more than I could handle. Those panic attacks came back worse and more frequently that they had ever been before. But this time I kept it to myself.

I still deal with anxiety every day. It’s a constant struggle. It feels different now as a young adult than it did when I was a kid. For anyone who never experienced childhood anxiety, it feels like a monster is lurking behind you. You hear its feat scratch on the floor. You feel its hot breath on your neck. But, yet, when you look in the mirror there’s nothing wrong (unless you have self-esteem problems which is a whole different story).

I wish I could go back. I’d tell myself that there wouldn’t be a fire. That no one would break in. That it was just a storm. That I wasn’t terminally ill. That moving, college, and graduating would work out. That the boy would dump me whether I obsessed over it or not. I don’t know if I would have listened though.

Anxiety messes with you. But today I make the choice to never let it win.