My eyelids unfurl slowly as a flash of bright sunshine lights up the room. I shuffle in my bed as a lazy white mist of thoughts cloud my mind. Something terrible is going to happen hisses my mind as fear trickles down like a venomous serpent. My eyelids crease as I shut my eyes tightly, trying to push those thoughts away. My eyebrows draw together tautly into a furrow. My heart flutters like a butterfly as my heart rate accelerates to what feels like a thousand beats per minute. My body feels pinned down by restlessness as a heavy feeling sinks down upon my chest. I start to breathe roughly, gasping for air. I toss around the sheets trying to shake the feeling off. The thoughts persist despite my efforts, clutching on to my mind tightly, like a parasite, sucking away my happiness and draining my energy.

No one loves you hisses my mind.

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That’s not true I tell myself.

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Are you sure? The thoughts poison my mind.

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I don’t know. I feel caught in a tangle of thoughts.

My eyes swell up with tears. The room turns into a blur. I start to feel dizzy as I navigate the cloudy thoughts on my mind. The dark wooden clock on the wall ticks by, swinging its arms steadily as I lay in my bed paralyzed by my thoughts.

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I don’t want to get out of bed. Too tired to wake up. I wish I never woke up.

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My eyes glance weakly towards the ticking clock. It’s nine o'clock. A Sunday morning in March. I roll towards the edge of the bed and finally get out.

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I tie my ruffled curls into a knot at the top of my head as I head into the bathroom across the bedroom. Staring into the mirror mounted on the purple tiled wall, I see a reflection of my pale face, swollen puffy eyes with dark circles lining my under eyes and cherry red nose. Cold water gushes out into the sink under the mirror as I turn on the squeaky tap. I splash my face with some water in an effort to cover up my “crying “face. Then, I brush my teeth, put my glasses on and head down the white marble staircase into the hallway through the slightly, faded wooden double door, to enter a living room with high ceilings, expansive marble floors as white as snow, warm-toned sofas with a blend of cream and brown like milk in coffee.

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I lived in a three storied bungalow in Hyderabad, a city in India, with a joint family of twelve along with my grandparents, two uncles, two aunts, four cousins, my mother and younger sister. My father travelled a lot for work, so he was rarely at home.

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The living room was the central part of the house as it was connected to the kitchen and guest bedroom towards the left side as well as the dining room and office room on the right side. Across the main door was a television cabinet with the master bedroom and the children’s room on either side.

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As I entered the living room, I turned left into the kitchen through the glass door masking how I felt and feigning enthusiasm. I could smell the strong whiffs of ginger tea as I walked in. My mother stood there sipping steaming tea out of a ceramic blue teacup which she held with her bony fingers.

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“Maa, I am hungry. Is breakfast ready?” I say in a shaky voice.

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“Yes.” My mother pauses. Looks at me with her wide brown eyes and asks, “Are you okay?”

Turning my eyes away, “Yeah, I am fine. Just hungry.” I lie.

My mother didn’t say anything back then although I think she saw right through my façade. I didn’t want her to worry about me. So, I kept how I felt hidden, a secret, locked inside a trunk. I had been feeling that way for a few months. I didn’t understand why I felt so restless and unhappy every morning. I started to feel like I was living a nightmare on repeat. I dreaded my mornings. I dreaded the nights before my mornings. In no time, I was stuck in an endless loop of dread and did not know how to break free from it.

I have a faint memory of the day I realized I had Generalized Anxiety Disorder. My heart pounded heavily in my chest like it was about to drop when I found a name for what I was experiencing every day. I remember how my eyes widened as I watched a video on YouTube about how anxiety could only be controlled but not cured completely. I thought that I was never going to be normal again. My heart shattered into what felt like a thousand pieces as I felt that my anxiety was inseparable like a shadow. I clicked onto another video on the sidebar about how therapy can help cope with anxiety. In my head, I visualized talking to someone about how I felt I felt anxious. It felt daunting to uncover the secret that I kept well-hidden for so long. I lacked the courage to open up to anyone about my anxiety, so I decided to bury my secret deep inside me. I deleted the search history and shut my laptop.

 I was a naïve thirteen-year-old girl who did not know how common mental health issues were. I felt alone like I was the only one in the world who had anxiety. I thought that no one would understand how I felt. I shed silent tears every night after everyone was asleep thinking that I was broken beyond repair. I wished that I could feel normal like everyone else. Five years later, I know now that anxiety is a very common mental health issue and that there are many people who share similar experiences. I wish I knew that I was not alone and that I could ask for help. I cared too much about how I was perceived about others back then. Now, I have learnt to seek help from counsellors in college if I ever feel overwhelmed with anxiety.

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The dishes clattered noisily as I pulled out a plate for my breakfast. I took my food to the dining table across the living room where I sat down to reluctantly eat as a way to distract my mind from how I felt. I ate slowly with my head held down while I nibbled at the food on my plate. I felt overwhelmed by a sudden wave of terror that knocked me over. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my hand as I heard the heavy footsteps of my mother behind me. She sat across the table with her cup of tea held between her hands. I kept my head held down and my eyes hidden from my mother’s glance. I could not keep it in anymore. My secret that I kept hidden for so long finally escaped Pandora’s box.

“Can you take me to a therapist?” My voice quavered.

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“What happened?” my mother said alarmed, “You can tell me what happened.”

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“I just feel afraid.” My eyes filled with tears. My heart raced.

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“What are you afraid of?” My mother looked intently at me, trying to listen to what I was saying and yet not comprehending what I was going through.

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“I don’t know! I don’t know!” I broke into tears.

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My mother’s face was filled with shock and despair. “Why are you crying?”

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“I feel really afraid.” I sobbed. “Please make it go away. Please take me to a therapist” Huge tears trickled down my cheeks.

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“You don’t need to go to a therapist. It is not necessary.” My mother shook her head. “Everyone will think you are crazy if you go there. You are just overthinking. You will feel fine in sometime.” She held me close to her as I wept.

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I could see her wide brown eyes fill with worry and felt a sharp pang of guilt as I saw a tear glisten in her eye. Watching her turn emotional, I sobbed loudly, my chest heaving, and let my tears flow out like a river.

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As a child, I believed deeply that my family will always understand me and be there for me as support in difficult times. My feelings felt invalidated when my family was not ready to accept that my mental health issues were “real.” I thought that it would be liberating to finally share how I felt and that I would feel relieved by finally letting my secret out. However, watching them excessively worry and dismiss my feelings made me wish I never told anyone about how I felt. If I could go back in time, I would tell myself that just because my family did not understand my anxiety, it did not mean that how I felt was not real or that my feelings were invalid.

Soon everyone in the house got to know of my breakdown.

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“What’s the matter?” My grandmother consoled in her deep voice. “What’s bothering you?”

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“I feel scared.” My voice breaking between my sobs.

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“Everyone feels scared sometimes. Pray to God. You’ll be fine,” she reassured patting my head.

“What will a psychologist do?” My mother’s voice rushed, “Tell us what happened. We are family.”

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I did not have the words to answer her question. I just lay on the black leather sofa in the office room staring blankly at the blue textured walls as tears slipped from my eyes slowly. My head was pounding. I felt exhausted. My eyes drooped close, pushing a fat tear onto my cheek. The fear lifted off my chest gradually as I slipped into a dream.

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I heard voices around me. My cousins had come downstairs to ask how I felt.

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“Why did she cry?” enquired Nikita, my oldest cousin. I considered her my elder sister more so than a cousin although she was my father’s elder brother’s daughter. As a child, I would often make a mental list of my favorite people and I had placed her name somewhere on the top of that list as I was quite fond of her. In fact, I had often considered opening up to her about my anxiety as I believed that if anyone in my family would understand me, it would be her.

“She didn’t tell me.” My mother said slowly. “All she said was that she was scared. She wanted to go to a therapist.” My mother’s voice lined with worry.

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My eyes opened lazily.

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“How do you feel now?” my mother placed her warm hand on my cheek. Her forehead creased.

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“Fine.” I say sleepily. I felt fine whenever I was around people. The presence of others around me distracted my mind from worrying. It was when I was alone that my anxiety would creep in on me.

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“I told you it will be fine. You were worried for no reason.” She felt relieved. The wrinkles on her face smoothed out as her face relaxed.

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“My head hurts a little.” I place my hand against my throbbing temples.

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“I will get you some chai.” My mother headed to the kitchen to make some tea for me.

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Nikita sat down beside me on the sofa as I got up to sit straight.

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“Why did you have to be so dramatic? Do you know how worried your mother was? You can’t always think of yourself. You have to learn to be strong. You can’t trouble your mom like this.” Nikita blurted.

She probably said that out of concern, but I just felt hurt to hear that I was “dramatic” and a “trouble.” It made me think that my feelings were invalidated, and I felt guilty for sharing how I felt. Later, everyone acted like the anxiety attack never happened and did not mention it ever again. Following the incident, I had found it difficult to open up about my anxiety to anyone as I expected them to look down upon me or invalidate it by saying that “It’s all in my head.”

Anxiety is common among college students who are learning how to live independently. It is, therefore, important to speak up about mental health issues in college so that no one feels like they are suffering alone. As a college student, I have learned to prioritize my mental health and understand that my feelings are valid even though people might not completely understand them. I have grown to talk openly about my anxiety without any inhibitions in college and understand that it does not have to be a secret anymore. I finally let my secret out of Pandora’s box once and for all for the world to know.