Most of my readers, if I have any, are likely to be well-versed with international travel. Some of them are even acquainted with traveling with anxiety. I don’t know that any of them have ever had a panic attack while traveling (because they haven’t or they haven’t told me). Hint: not as fun as you think, different for everyone. But that’s neither here nor there, I just like to think I make people think more about mental health.

I’m on my way to take a summer class on English literature in England, with a short stay in Ireland and an even shorter one in Chicago. I got the cheapest tickets possible, thus the significant detours. Well, I say I got them, but my stepdad did it for me (yay! Thanks again!). With only one requirement--cheap--I am thus in the middle of a 12-hour layover in Chicago.

I’m writing this from the O’Hare Airport, where I’ve recently done something awesome.

What could be better than five weeks reading literature and enjoying the English countryside, you ask?

Well, after four hours sitting in terminal five when I had to be in terminal three, of trying to sleep and failing spectacularly after discovering my root beer had caffeine in it (I have a super low tolerance), I finally made it to my check-in spot where, to my stupendous surprise, I was able to check-in eight hours early!

Then, I thought to myself, I have at least three hours to mess around!

The TSA had given a warning to arrive at least three hours early to get through security and be on time, and whatever they say, I like to add an hour. Idiots, I breezed through in 10 minutes.

So, what to do, what to do? Go straight to my gate and find some place to eat? Or travel all by myself on a surprise adventure to a beautiful city?

Puh-lease.

So, the amazing thing was not that it was my first time in a strange city alone. I had been in stranger and survived on my own, although, honestly, that’s a whole other story. It was not taking a city train for the first time. This was not even my first time on this particular train, though it had been a few years because it was extremely easy. Are you getting my small-town vibe?

The absolutely craze-mazing part was that, less than 12 hours ago (I think, time zones are weird), I was having a panic attack as I checked in and walked with my parents around the terminal before I even got to security. I already missed my beloved puppy dog, Manzy. I was already feeling the loss of my own, rather spacious, bed, my own room and the feeling of security those things and parents bring. I’ve recently been diagnosed with a whole buttload of stuff, but none of it mattered, ‘cause I was going on an adventure.

As I wrote the first draft of this article, which was all about how traveling with anxiety sucks, I almost gave myself another panic attack just thinking about the first one and all the reasons and ways a person can blow minor things out of proportion.

Then, I got to Chicago and something just clicked. I thought: This is my chance. This is my chance to start doing the thing that I've always wanted to be doing!

I didn’t even have any idea what I was talking about, and I didn’t care, until I was on the Blue Line moving towards Downtown Chicago, when suddenly I kept repeating over and over in my head: This is living. This is living. This is living.

livinglivinglivinglivINGLIVINGLIVING

I spent a half an hour looking for the bean and feeling disappointed in my GPS, sweated a lot, bought a smoothie, thought about eating in the city before my panic came back and ushered me back to the train and straight through security. But I had forgotten how much I love the architecture, and I really do love it, so I spent most of the time gaping skyward.

And I felt so, so alive.

But more importantly, I felt like I gave my mental illness a big ol' punch in the face.