Last spring, I was watching a show in my school's largest theatre, known as "Deg Theatre" by most. It was a production put on by the school's theatre department, and I was glad to support my friends and all of the work they've put into it.

I was sitting with some friends at the time, too. I suppose you could rearrange those words to say, "at the time friends," but the point is, it seemed like a nice situation. Just relaxing and enjoying the theatre.

But at the time, my stomach was trembling. I felt as if the room was literally spinning, as if I were on a tilt-a-whirl at a carnival... It was supposed to be fun, but instead I just felt overwhelmed and nauseated. I felt an overall tension metaphorically stinging and weighting down my insides.

I bolted. My footsteps banged against the stairs, and even in the dark, I could see that everyone turned to look. With my back turned, I couldn't tell if the silence on stage was part of the scene, or if even the actors were staring at me. The spotlight might as well have been shown on me. I was humiliated.

So, what made me, a grown adult, run out the door like a 5-year-old looking for their mommy? As strange as it sounds, the seating. The theatre was designed at an angle, rows of seats descending toward the bottom where the stage sits, leading to a climb from the stage to the exit. Many theatres are designed this way. It's not unique. However, my reaction certainly was.

Why do I have a problem with descending seating? Only three years prior, in high school, I had made at least a dozen relationships with people I would call "enemies." Now, the word enemies could seem a bit dramatic, but regardless, they were brutal. Throwing me into trash cans, tossing me around in what they called, "nerd circle," and unfortunately, dropping me down the bleachers at pep rallies. In fact, some of these, "enemies," made a point to sit behind me, above me, for the sole purpose of kicking me in the head, smacking me in the face, launching projectiles.

Once, in the midst of a pep rally, set in a basketball arena with plastic bleachers reaching a mile high on each sideline, I was thrown down the stairs onto the wood floor. People on each sideline stared. A teacher, whom I still don't know the name of, accused me of jumping, trying to make a scene.

"Come with me," she said.

"Where?"

"Principal Iosso's"

"But."

"I don't want to hear your excuses," she beckoned with her hand. Her eyes tensed inward, and her lips were were drawn almost cartoon-like, as if she were about to grab me and drag me to the principal's office herself.

"But I fell, I was thrown."

"Right," she said with sarcasm. I didn't know how to convince her.

I raised my pitch to a feminine whine. "I'm a good kid, though. I don't get in trouble. I know it looks like I'm a drunk kid, but you can trust me." "Well, I mean, I guess you can't," I said. "You've never met me before, but ask anyone. I mean, anyone but Shim. I mean the kid who threw me. He'd probably lie about it. Well, a lot of people would probably lie about it just to spite me, but." My mouth ran faster than my mind, that tenseness, that nausea, that tilt-a-whirl room.

She scowled as I told her she couldn't trust me, but then she saw the look on my face, the look of depressed teenage self-hatred, and she she could tell I wasn't a harm to anyone else. "Just don't do it again," she pointed to the bleachers.

Granted, I wouldn't have been surprised if some drunk idiot had jumped off the bleachers as some kind of joke. So, I don't blame her for thinking I was that idiot. It didn't hurt much, and to a big, wasted guy, it would probably hurt less, but I was in front of the entire class of 500. And the teacher gave me an option. Take me to the principal and face suspension, or go back to my seat and deal more with the boy who threw me to the ground.

Being the dumb teenager who wanted people to like him, I chose the latter, less shame that way, less spotlight. But he continued.

And after getting beaten, literally sprawled on my back afterwards, fist after fist after backpack of bricks—this Steven Shim was relentless. When I was able to catch a pause in his beating, I got up and ran, bolted to another seat, trying to go unnoticed by the crowd until I landed near a teacher.

I don't blame the kids who beat me during pep rallies anymore than I do the teachers. Nick Tufaro had been just as insecure as I was, needed to prove himself to his friends. Nick Steinberg had anger issues, some kind of mental illness, and he was forced to find a target. Steven Shim and I had feuded for years, and we had exchanged hateful words in person and online since sixth grade. In the future, I would generalize all of these moments into the singular, "assault," as to not whine about each instance of aggression, but I do forgive all of my attackers and understand why they did it. We were all human.

And as a result, I had grown to distrust humans, especially when they had a tactical advantage over me. And since the ancient Greeks, we've known that higher ground almost always is a tactical advantage.

I am not claiming to have fought in a real war, and I cannot say definitely that I have PTSD. The latter has been debated by various professionals. What I can say is that mental illnesses like PTSD and anxiety need to be recognized, treated, and prevented.

To start, let's not assault people. It's that simple. While I do understand the rationale behind Steinberg and Tufaro and Shim, as well as several others, it's still not an OK thing to do. Over 20,000 people get assaulted daily. One in four children get bullied, often violently. This trend needs to stop, as it is one of the leading causes of PTSD, of anxiety, of depression. Nearly 180,000 people get beaten or worse daily in the United States alone, one in seven children. Over 160,000 children fear for their safety in school.

I may be uncomfortable sitting in theatres and stadiums, but there are far worse cases that result from childhood bullying and harassment out there, including school dropouts, suicides, and mass shootings. These need to be prevented, and thankfully, there is a silver lining to curb them.

But all we need to do to stop it? Teach our children empathy. Studies show that children learn aggression as early as two years old. If we set a positive example for our kids, we won't have to live in a world where they have irrational or legitimate fear of going to school

I've gotten better at tolerating these panic attacks, attending more performances, and finding ways to cope with them, including creative writing, reading, and ironically, performing on stage myself. This may not work for everyone, but I believe it is possible for those in need to get help and to make sure fewer people are in need in the first place.

To those suffering from these conditions, I know that something out there will help you if you seek it out. You don't have to duck out of that theatre or crowded space. You can make anywhere a safe place.