"Mom the cream's not working" I began to say as I stumbled up the stairs,
still drowsy from the medicine I had taken that evening. "Put on a jacket and
lets go to the urgent care center" my mother sighed. This had been the story of
my life for about a month now. Dizziness, anxiety, and hives filled my days with
the seemingly endless "popping of pills" and salty stinging tears rolling down
my cheeks. Nurses were perplexed, doctors were vague, and I had no hope of ever getting better.
The year of sixth grade really took a beating on me. I remember
everyone being confused during my first weeks of middle school. However
after everyone had found their niche after a few weeks, I was still
wondering, trying to make sense of everything. By the second month of middle
school I never talked in class, ate lunch alone, and spent most of my free
time crying in the councilor's office. When our faux therapy sessions seemed to
do nothing, I started hitting rock bottom. I remember walking into middle
school every morning and feeling an instant gray cloud of misery linger over me
until the second the 2:30 evening bell rang to end the school day. Every
time an adult would tell me in their empty, oblivious voice that "it would
get better the next day", it always seemed to get worse. I was extremely
disheartened with my worsening school life, my failing grades, and my
nonexistent friends. All I wanted to do was stay
home.
I noticed early on that I started developing a lot of flu
symptoms. Fevers, headaches, nausea-just to name a few. The shoddier my
school life got, the more sicklyI became. It seemed like every
day I was enveloped by such bad anxiety that I would be shipped home no later
than 4th hour for symptoms ranging from vomiting to breaking out in hives.
My arms and legs would flair up and consume me with a fiery, itchy,
crimson rash. This meant that I was proscribed a colorful array of
pills, which caused immense drowsiness. This weakening side effect
caused me to constantly fall asleep in class and subsequently caused my grades
to plummet as well. I remember one witty and slightly demeaning doctor
saying "sometimes darling, it has to get worse before it can get better", to
which I defiantly responded "you went to six years of med school to give
me that crappy diagnosis?"
One particularly melancholy day [passage omitted], I was sent to
the urgent care center for a late night diagnosis that would leave us with more
prescriptions and ointments. While sitting on the gurney I awaited another
artificially perky doctor with distressed eyes and an even more
distressing, vaguediagnosis. [passage omitted] Yet another doctor waltzed in
and gave me the general medical rundown which I had practically memorized by
this time around. However,something slightly miraculous happened. The
attending nurse looked at me and as a side comment said "my daughter had
the same problems with panic attacks in middle school." What had been causing
this seemingly endless flu, constant breakout of hives, and fits of rage and
gloom, was stress. Simple, yes I know, but my stress levels had gotten so high
that I gave myself what is commonly known as a "stress cold." However, my
case was slightly more severe than the normal preteen, according to the later
diagnosis. [passage omitted] My stress levels were so high that I was
actually having daily panic attacks without even being aware of it anymore. I
was no longer was forced to use creams or medication, just old fashioned
stress management is what I needed.
The solution to my illness was not prescription drugs. The
solution was not something a college degree could scratch onto a piece of
paper and send to a pharmacy. My solution was managing my life properly. I could
not pickup friends right off the bat, nor could I pick up my grades right
off the floor; this was the point. I was trying so hard to go from the
bottom to the top that I left out every single middle step. I began slowly: say
hi to one person a day, take better notes, do better on quizzes, and sure enough
I started to stagger up those stairs. No longer at rock bottom I learned how to
handle stress; how to manage life. I was following the advice of the popular
rap artist, Drake: I started from the bottom and intended to reach the top.
To this day, I will always remember how to pick myself up at my
worst, and march myself back to my best.
still drowsy from the medicine I had taken that evening. "Put on a jacket and
lets go to the urgent care center" my mother sighed. This had been the story of
my life for about a month now. Dizziness, anxiety, and hives filled my days with
the seemingly endless "popping of pills" and salty stinging tears rolling down
my cheeks. Nurses were perplexed, doctors were vague, and I had no hope of ever getting better.
The year of sixth grade really took a beating on me. I remember
everyone being confused during my first weeks of middle school. However
after everyone had found their niche after a few weeks, I was still
wondering, trying to make sense of everything. By the second month of middle
school I never talked in class, ate lunch alone, and spent most of my free
time crying in the councilor's office. When our faux therapy sessions seemed to
do nothing, I started hitting rock bottom. I remember walking into middle
school every morning and feeling an instant gray cloud of misery linger over me
until the second the 2:30 evening bell rang to end the school day. Every
time an adult would tell me in their empty, oblivious voice that "it would
get better the next day", it always seemed to get worse. I was extremely
disheartened with my worsening school life, my failing grades, and my
nonexistent friends. All I wanted to do was stay
home.
I noticed early on that I started developing a lot of flu
symptoms. Fevers, headaches, nausea-just to name a few. The shoddier my
school life got, the more sicklyI became. It seemed like every
day I was enveloped by such bad anxiety that I would be shipped home no later
than 4th hour for symptoms ranging from vomiting to breaking out in hives.
My arms and legs would flair up and consume me with a fiery, itchy,
crimson rash. This meant that I was proscribed a colorful array of
pills, which caused immense drowsiness. This weakening side effect
caused me to constantly fall asleep in class and subsequently caused my grades
to plummet as well. I remember one witty and slightly demeaning doctor
saying "sometimes darling, it has to get worse before it can get better", to
which I defiantly responded "you went to six years of med school to give
me that crappy diagnosis?"
One particularly melancholy day [passage omitted], I was sent to
the urgent care center for a late night diagnosis that would leave us with more
prescriptions and ointments. While sitting on the gurney I awaited another
artificially perky doctor with distressed eyes and an even more
distressing, vaguediagnosis. [passage omitted] Yet another doctor waltzed in
and gave me the general medical rundown which I had practically memorized by
this time around. However,something slightly miraculous happened. The
attending nurse looked at me and as a side comment said "my daughter had
the same problems with panic attacks in middle school." What had been causing
this seemingly endless flu, constant breakout of hives, and fits of rage and
gloom, was stress. Simple, yes I know, but my stress levels had gotten so high
that I gave myself what is commonly known as a "stress cold." However, my
case was slightly more severe than the normal preteen, according to the later
diagnosis. [passage omitted] My stress levels were so high that I was
actually having daily panic attacks without even being aware of it anymore. I
was no longer was forced to use creams or medication, just old fashioned
stress management is what I needed.
The solution to my illness was not prescription drugs. The
solution was not something a college degree could scratch onto a piece of
paper and send to a pharmacy. My solution was managing my life properly. I could
not pickup friends right off the bat, nor could I pick up my grades right
off the floor; this was the point. I was trying so hard to go from the
bottom to the top that I left out every single middle step. I began slowly: say
hi to one person a day, take better notes, do better on quizzes, and sure enough
I started to stagger up those stairs. No longer at rock bottom I learned how to
handle stress; how to manage life. I was following the advice of the popular
rap artist, Drake: I started from the bottom and intended to reach the top.
To this day, I will always remember how to pick myself up at my
worst, and march myself back to my best.