“Invisible Weight” by Anonymous Teen

I don't remember when my prayers turned into apologies.

Or when the constant loop of “Let It Go” became an endless cycle of self-depricating thoughts. Or when my daydreams about being a rockstar princess turned into imaginary scenarios of waking up in the hospital after a failed attempt.

Or when writing the occasional birthday letter became drafting my final goodbyes.

On the inside, I carried around this invisible weight on my chest—the academic expectations of immigrant parents, mixed with a feeling of self-loathing that would seem to grow bigger every day.

But on the outside, I smiled.

I excelled academically.

I had friends.

Teachers adored me.

My report cards were adorned with A’s and decorated with teachers’ comments about my good behavior, eagerness to learn, and great potential.

Ironically, my walls were lined with awards, and my arms were lined with fading scratch marks.

Everyday, I went through the motions.

Until, one day, I couldn’t anymore.

In 7th grade, I had my first panic attack. After I accidently broke a rule I never knew existed, a teacher warned me that she was seriously considering taking disciplinary action. She let the other kids go with a warning, but she spoke to my friend and me privately. She pulled me out of another teacher’s class to remind me again that she was greatly disappointed and could write me up. The idea of asking my parents to sign that disciplinary note terrified me, but I kept face and nodded solemnly each time I was reprimanded throughout the day, holding my breath until she decided on my punishment at the end of the day. Hours went by, and my anxiety only grew. At the end of the day, she told me I would be let go with a warning, but I still couldn’t breathe. Before I could leave school, I was surrounded by two concerned teachers. I tried to explain, but my throat closed up. My chest tightened. I began hyperventilating, gasping for air. Tears burst from my eyes, and everything I held back came rushing to the surface—every fear, every worry, every suppressed emotion.

Unfortunately, I carried that anxiety with me throughout high school. And it only grew.

Learning to drive my sophomore and junior year was a whole new dimension of hell. My nervousness mixed with my dad’s short patience and tendency to curse brought my anxiety to new heights.

A year and a couple of panic attacks later, I finally got my driver’s license. However, even though my dad wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat, the fear and insecurity he instilled lingered.

I memorized every route.

I avoided driving my friends and family.

I avoided new routes.

I checked my blind spot countless times before merging.

I locked my car several times before walking away.

I watched my car lights turn off to ensure the car was fully off before leaving my garage.

I was finally diagnosed when I turned eighteen. No longer hindered by needing my parents’ approval, I was able to see a psychiatrist.

I entered the behavioral health building with the fear that everything I felt was irrational and weighed down by guilt that I had wasted my parents money.

About 90 minutes later, I exited the building with a prescription for 10mg prozac and a diagnosis for major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder.

15 minutes later, I was at a nearby shopping center, on call with my long-distance best friend, helping her draft her college essay. Life doesn’t stop when you have problems. I had people who relied on me, and even if I couldn’t be there for myself, I’d never abandon the people I love.

For the past few months, I’ve struggled with finding the right medication and dealing with the ups and downs of unwanted side effects. But I also learned so much about myself. I learned to recognize signs of burnout.

I learned to listen to my body and take a break.

I learned to truly prioritize the most important tasks.

I learned to ask people for help.

I learned how to open up to people.

I learned how to pick myself up.

And I know little me that never imagined living past 12 would be so proud of the person I’ve become.

On the days where I’m at my lowest and it seems like nothing can go right, I force myself to just go outside and sit. I always go to my neighborhood park, lay out a blanket, and bring a journal just in case.

I sit and listen to the wind and the birds and the cars driving by.

I sit and feel the sun on my skin and the grass beneath my fingertips.

I sit and focus on my breathing and try to let go of whatever is bothering me.

Oftentimes, in the idyll silence, my mind drifts to my mental health and the person I’d be without my issues. Would I be happier? Would I have accomplished everything I’ve achieved today? Would I have the same friends?

In the end, I’m grateful for my journey because, for better and for worse, it makes me who I am today.

It gave me a deeper sense of appreciation for the things I never paid attention to. It makes me resilient.

It makes me driven.

It makes me me.

Despite my chronic illness, I graduated as valedictorian with a 4.63 GPA. Despite my chronic illness, I got accepted into the #1 public university.

Despite my chronic illness, I got a prestigious scholarship.

Despite my chronic illness, I got a competitive scholarship with my city.

Despite my chronic illness, I’m still here, and I’m proud of who I’ve become and excited for my journey ahead.