I was eight the day I experienced my first panic attack; the root being the stresses in my family. I was only a third grader who saw the world as harmless and wonderful, until that day.

That day tore away a piece of me, and I do not even know if I have found it again or not.

I felt like I was suffocating, and I really thought I was going to die. At the time, as a clueless child, I did not know what was going on.

I forced myself to believe that everyone went through whatever I was going through, and that it was completely normal.

However, as the school year went on, things started getting worse and worse.

I began experiencing anxiety and panic attacks almost every week.

They came during the school day, when I was in the shower, at dinnertime, or when I was in bed.

Little by little, I lost myself and my positive outlook on the world.

My anxiety was all I knew by the second or third year of experiencing it. It took away all my happiness and strength.

It made me feel as though I was drowning, but my eyes were still above the water and I could see everyone else around me being content and safe.

My anxiety became my demon.

Coming from a family that did not believe mental illnesses were real, did not help.

I was terrified of coming to terms with my anxiety, even with myself.

I shut myself out from the rest of the world, including my own parents.

I broke down every day after school for three to four years as a tween.

It was never just about stuttering in front of a crowd or test-taking anxiety; it was about despising my own reflection and letting my mentality be damaged.

I could not come to terms with what was killing me because I felt like I did not deserve to be helped.

That was what my anxiety did to me – it made me feel worthless.

With anxiety comes depression. That did not hit me until fifth grade, the year I got called names like “Pimple Face” or ugly, the year when my mom’s drug addiction to painkillers got worse, the year when I wanted to take my own life.

I was 10, and I hated the world with every ounce of my being.

I was no longer myself by 2013. I had no piece of me left as I dangerously ruined myself.

I pushed everyone I loved and who loved me, away because I felt unworthy of them.

I could not see myself having a future in just a month or two.

Every source of energy was drained from my being, and for five years, I saw no good reason for me to continue on with life.

I became extremely ill, both mentally and physically. I would stay in bed for days and I would only leave my room to use the bathroom or get food.

By the sixth year of suffering from constant anxiety and depression, I had enough the day a friend of mine nearly successfully committed suicide.

I knew I could not push myself that far over the edge. I could not hold it together when I tried telling my dad, so I had to write him a letter, asking him for help and explaining the severity of the problem.

I cried as he was reading it.

He was not very accepting of it at first, but with some time, he began understanding.

In today’s society, mental illnesses are overlooked on a daily basis.

People either do not believe that they truly exist or they are not as seriously severe as physical illnesses, such as cancer or liver failure.

However, as someone whose demons for the past seven years have been anxiety and depression.

I can confirm that mental illnesses do indeed exist, and more importantly, they should be treated.

I still do not believe that he fully understands it now, but I know he tries his best to do so.

Not all my friends understood, either, and that was the year I lost most of them because they felt I had too much baggage.

However, I was gaining back tiny parts of myself that were lost for five years.

I began speaking up for myself at school with my teachers and fortunately, they understood, and my middle school counselor helped me find a professional to help me.  

I began seeing a psychologist twice a week for six months.

It took every bit of courage in me to speak up for myself, but it was the best thing that could have happened to me.

Slowly, but surely, I became more positive and opened about my anxiety and depression.

It took me two years to recover, and I am still in my recovery stage today.

I am currently on medication for my anxiety, and truthfully, I am very proud of myself.

However, the medication isn’t the   source of my recovery.

Rather, it was the therapy and my own will to get better.

I lost myself for seven years, and I am still having difficulty finding all the fragments of who I once was, but my journey has taught me so much, and I am grateful that I survived.

The real truth is, one’s inner demons never fully go away; they will always hold a piece of me in their hands, but I understand now that my life is in my control and my own hands.

I made peace with my demons and befriended them as I taught us to become more positive and to love ourselves.

Maybe it seems like I have my life together to others, and even though I am a very positive and social person now, I still have days when all I want to do is stay in bed for hours on end or completely shut everyone out.

And that is okay.

I know those days will pass, and I want everyone who reads this to know the very same.

Things have greatly improved for me and they have for my mom as well.

We are both recovering and it feels incredible.

I now spend my days exploring nature, writing in my journal, surrounding myself with positivity, and simply loving life.

Seven years of my life were taken away from me, by myself.

I refuse to let another year slip by with negativity and pain.

To anyone who may be reading this, know that it can and it will get better, but only if you work for it.

Writing as the girl who was a danger to herself and now, the girl who loves herself, I can honestly say that there is more to life than mental illnesses.

If you know someone who is suffering, offer them support and urge them to get help.

Anything and everything will pass, both the bad and the good. Do not let your demons win.