Exactly 2 years ago my family and I traveled down to Florida for spring break. My parents told us we were going to go to Orlando, nothing unusual. I mean it was what we did almost every spring break. Acting like my usual teen self, I stared at my phone the entire car ride. I didn’t even notice we were not in Orlando until I finally looked out of the window. What I saw was not the hotel I was expecting. There were hundreds of cars parked around us, in a huge parking lot. I was really confused, so I hollered at my dad,

“Um dad, where are we… where is the hotel?”

He looked at me and my sisters and unexpectedly screamed, “We are going on a cruise to the Bahamas!”
The people in the car next to us gave us a nasty look for screaming from excitement, but I didn’t care. I was going to the freaking Bahamas.

The first Monday of spring break in 2015, I boarded the massive cruise ship. I remember struggling to carry my over-packed neon green suitcase up the ramp. I nearly toppled over just from anticipation. During my first few days on this floating paradise, I had just as much fun as I expected. I stayed up late watching movies, I swam peacefully in the crystal clear pool, and even sang some very off-key karaoke. But then, around three days into the vacation, I felt like something was wrong. It’s hard to describe what I was feeling inside. It still is to this day. I knew I needed some cheering up, so I do what I always do when I’m feeling down, go eat some food. My family and I headed down the boardwalk into the massive lunch room. Now, this lunchroom was an all day, every day, all you can eat buffet. I mean every. Single. Day. I probably spent more time looking at food then I did looking out into the ocean, and we were on a boat.

I strutted over to the dessert table and I piled up two scoops of strawberry ice cream. I vividly remember putting little rainbow sprinkles and mini marshmallows on top. I looked around the lunch room for an empty seat, when out of nowhere my heart started to rapidly speed up. I remember clenching on to the nearest table for stability as my heart pounded faster and faster. I gasped for air, and I soon became very lightheaded from hyperventilating. It seemed like my lungs were deteriorating by the second. I tried to take in more oxygen, but I was almost certain I would suffocate to death. I thought I was dying. I thought I was having a stroke, or a heart attack, or maybe even worse. I broke down into tears of distress as my parents tried to figure out what was wrong with me. I saw the worried look of their faces, and I wanted to tell them what was wrong so desperately. The issue is, I didn’t know what was wrong; I wish I had known. I was so confused and scared, all I could do was sit there in panic, and let it pass.

The week right after the cruise, I went home and my mom took me to a psychiatrist. As it turns out, I had had my first panic attack. I learned that a panic attack is caused by a sudden feeling of acute, or disabling anxiety. I had always believed there needed to be a reason for someone to have anxiety.  I didn’t realized it could show up at any moment with absolutely no warning. I didn’t realize how much control anxiety has over a person’s life until it controlled mine. I mean, I've heard people say,

“Oh, I nearly just dropped my phone in the toilet, and almost had a panic attack.”

Did they really even know what a panic attack is? Did they experience what I went through?

  After weeks of constant battling with my anxiety, I felt that there was no use in fighting anymore. I accepted that it was a war I had already lost, so I let it take control of my life. I became very withdrawn from my friends and family. I would cry myself to sleep almost every night, and lay in bed the entire next day. I lost a majority of my appetite, and even pretended to be sick, so I didn't have to go to school. I didn't want to do anything. I had never felt this helpless before. I often wondered why I even existed.

My mom noticed that I was having more intense issues, so she brought me back to the psychiatrist. That day I was diagnosed with moderate depression and chronic anxiety disorder. I was so confused, how could a 14 year old have depression and anxiety? What was wrong with me? When the medicine was introduced, I was reluctant to take it. I didn’t think it would help at all; however, my mom made sure that I took my medications every day. I resented her for it at first, but overtime I started to enjoy life again. I gradually became more active with my friends, and I began to gain my appetite back. I even started smiling which was something I had missed.
I truly thought I was recovering until I had another panic attack, but this time it was much worse. Like the first time it had no trigger.  It came unexpectedly and out of nowhere, and that was the scariest part. I never knew when I could get a panic attack, or when I could lose control completely. Within the next month my panic attacks just got worse and more frequent, so did my anxiety. I was ready to give up.

After weeks of persuading, my mom finally convinced me to go to therapy. She believed talking about my issues could help me figure out why I was having panic attacks. At first I hated it. I despised going every week. I felt like every time I opened up about a problem, my therapist would judge me for feeling depressed about it. But as my sessions became more constant, so did my emotions. I finally began to talk to her. As the weeks went by, I could tell the therapy was helping me stay more positive. My therapist would always tell me,
“Pain is real, but so is hope.”

She would say this phrase constantly throughout my sessions. I don’t know if was the repetition of this phrase, or the medicine finally kicking in, but I realized that being depressed sucks. My mind was so affected with my pain, I couldn’t get myself to believe hope was even an option. I woke up every day for the next month stating 10 things that were great about my life, and I started becoming happy. Today, I wake up each morning and state ten things that are great about my life. I still have panic attacks, I still have chronic anxiety, and I still have depression. I've just learned how to handle my flaws, and accept that they are a part of me. I’m no longer embarrassed to share this side of myself with others. In fact I’m proud of it. I’m proud that I have overcome depression and anxiety. I’m not saying I wake up every day with a smile on my face, sometimes it is hard to. But whenever I’m feeling down, I tell myself that each day can either be a battle, or a victory, so I choose victory.