One. Two. Three. Four.

I stare blankly up at the ceiling, counting the tiles that join together at perfect right angles in a desperate attempt to restore some order to the world that is shattering into a million tiny pieces all around me. My palms are clammy as I place them shakily on my knees, which are drawn closely up to my chest. I can hear my breath rattling through my throat as I take rapid, erratic, shuddering breaths.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

The screen on my phone lights up as it buzzes loudly against the carpeted floor. I ignore it even as it continues its incessant noisemaking. The thought of answering briefly flashes across my mind, like a bolt of lightning, and I feel a hysterical giggle bubble up in my chest. I let out one sob of laughter, clenching my hands into such tight fists that my nails dig into my skin. The pain is invigorating.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Somewhere, in the depths of my mind, a little voice speaks up in a tiny, faint whisper. You're having a panic attack, it informs me uselessly, providing me with no ammunition with which to fight this mental battle. I feel the laughter build again, not because anything is even remotely funny about this situation, but because of the absurdity of how rational my thoughts are in this completely irrational breakdown.

It had started out like any other day. I woke up to my infernal alarm, which I purposely keep far enough away from my bed so that I have to actually get up in order to turn it off. Then I wandered downstairs to the showers, which have the water pressure of a leaky faucet. After drying off, I selected an outfit that would protect me against the cold air of a typical early New England winter. There was a fragile little thought that registered in the very back of my head: Something isn't right. It flapped its wings like a baby bird learning how to fly, but never took off. I pushed it off to the side, stuffed a pair of gloves on, and trooped back down the four flights of stairs to the entrance of my dorm.

I'd done everything right. I'd made a quick stop at the dining hall to grab a couple of things to munch on later in the day and my obligatory daily cup of coffee. I'd gone to my classes with it clutched in one gloved hand, luxuriating in the warm feel of the paper container. I'd sat through a couple of boring lectures and taken notes with copious amounts of scribbles doodled in the margins. Then I'd headed to the confines of my dorm room, shut the door behind me, and unpacked the contents of my bag: notebooks, salad, copious amounts of pens and pencils, my sneakers, and a shirt and a pair of gym shorts.

And then it happened.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

There was no moment that triggered it. There was no specific instigator. I had reached out to turn on the little lights hung on my side of the room, glanced out the window, and then settled back into my chair.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

The edges of my vision start to blur and darken. I blink my eyes a few times rapidly, feeling tears begin to sting at the corners. Panic attack. Panic attack. Panic attack. The words play like a drumbeat marching through my brain. But where there would normally be some accompaniment; some contrasting thoughts running through my head to combat the steady beat of sheer terror, there is nothing. My mind is blank, save for the numbers drifting slowly through it.

I'd had this happen to me before, though I hadn't had a name to put to the devilish face lurking behind it. It had never registered with me that there could be a reason behind why it was occurring. I treated myself like a machine that was broken: I was just in need of repair; I could easily get back in working order with just a few little edits and adjustments.

My phone begins to buzz again. As if I'm in a trance, I pick it up and look at the glowing screen, not even allowing the name and number on it to register. Then I put it down, grab my laptop, and google "anxiety".

Here's what shows up.

Anxiety is defined as "a mental health disorder characterized by feelings of worry, anxiety, or fear that are strong enough to interfere with one's daily activities." There are several types of anxiety disorders, including, but not limited to, panic disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and social anxiety. I happen to suffer from all three, something I learned after speaking to a psychologist for the first time.

Anxiety disorders are also very common. It's extremely likely that someone you know is dealing with one. It's also extremely likely that this person has not spoken up about their disorder for a multitude of reasons: either they are afraid, they are unaware, or they don't believe they need help.

This is not to say that anxiety disorders are always all-consuming, crippling things. They can be managed, and they can be fought.

But sitting in the uncomfortable, hard-backed chair, with my legs tucked up as closely to my body as I could manage, shaking like a leaf, I didn't feel strong. I didn't feel powerful. I felt weak, tiny, and absolutely, completely, scared shitless, to be honest.

Because anxiety disorders are not to be underestimated. They are faced and battled every day by people across the world. They can impact every aspect of your life, from waking up in the morning and contemplating whether you feel capable of getting out of bed to letting your eyes close at night and feeling relieved that you've managed to make it through another day.

Anxiety impacts me personally in many ways, and it can be exhausting. From turning down plans with friends to laying listlessly staring at the ceiling counting tiles, it can start to control your life.

I happen to be a very sensitive person. The opinions and thoughts of others matter greatly to me, and I often tend to take things very literally and personally. Though I'm probably being sarcastic a good 75% of the time, I really do take words to heart. And then anxiety starts to crawl its way into my head, like a poison spreading through my veins. It travels further and further until it is coursing through my entire body. I start to attribute things that go wrong to my own failures. I begin to blame myself for things outside of my control. I create situations and scenarios that are entirely fabricated out of thin air and worry about their eventualities so much that I end up making them my reality.

If you have ever found yourself feeling the same way, I'm here to tell you that not only is that entirely normal, but I understand exactly what you mean. I'm also here to tell you that you're wrong, about several things.

One:

You are not a burden to anyone.

Two:

You are not insane for feeling the way you do.

Three:

You are not broken.

Four:

You are not lesser of a person for any reason.

Five:

Your feelings are not irrational.

Six:

You are not the problem.

Seven:

You are not a failure because you can't think of a solution.

Eight:

You are accomplishing things every day, not staying stagnant.

Nine:

You are not weak, you are incredibly strong.

Ten:

You are not facing this alone.

Please, if you feel you might be suffering from an anxiety disorder, please, do not continue to bear this incredible weight on your shoulders alone. Ask for the help that you deserve.

I take one deep, shaky breath, allowing the tension across my whole body to lessen slightly. I drop my shoulders from where they had raised up next to my ears, relax my death grip on nothing, and allow my gaze to travel over to the window. Outside, students mill around on the streets and sidewalks. The sky overhead is a marbled grey and white series of clouds. Distantly, I can hear the clock on the wall overhead ticking away the seconds. Life is continuing on.

And, with another breath, I begin to move with it.

One. Two. Three. Four.