What do you think when you see someone crossing the street or walking in the opposite direction on a sidewalk? Do you quickly take in what they look like or what they’re wearing or doing? Are they a tall guy in a baseball hat or a sporty woman jogging with her dog? Truth is, you probably don’t think much about the person crossing the street or coming toward you on the sidewalk. They’re another person going about their lives just like you.

But to an anxious ten-year-old walking down that same street and watching that person walking toward her, that person isn’t just going about their lives like she is. The simple act of that person walking down the street toward her has got her wondering where her gaze should be focused, what she should do with her hands, how close she should walk to the person, what she should do if they speak to her, and should she look down—whatshouldshedo?

What you’re probably thinking now is “Why is a ten-year-old freaking out about nothing? It’s all in her head.” And that is exactly the problem. Mental illnesses, such as anxiety disorders and mood disorders, are quickly brushed aside with this often-heard and much-hated phrase: “It’s all in your head.” Well, no shit. That is 100% the problem.

Now, look, at ten years old, I had no idea that I might have a problem with anxiety, but I did have an inkling that my brain had some issue with everyday, ordinary occurrences, such as figuring out where I would sit for lunch at school, having to pick a partner for group projects and assignments, or wondering whether or not I was going to be picked last for teams in gym. Do you see a pattern here? All of these occurrences that tripped the signal in my brain all have one core element: people. Oh yes, this is very much a thing. People are everywhere, why did they make me anxious?

Well, to be fair, it’s not the people who make me anxious. Rather, it’s just my brain that makes me anxious. Wait a minute, does that validate the phrase “It’s all in your head”? Yes, yes it does. That is why anyone with a mental illness most likely hates that phrase because it is, regrettably, true. Ultimately, mental illnesses are caused by numerous factors, including traumatic events, child-rearing, genetics, and the very structure of an individual’s brain, so they are primarily internal battles.

In particular, the mental illness I struggle with is social anxiety. Social anxiety is when an individual experiences anxiety in a variety of social situations, hence the name, and is caused by a combination of genetics, child-raising, and past experiences.

In my case, it didn’t help that I was a very shy kid at six, which is when kids are supposed to shed their clinging-to-mommy sensibilities and start making friends. However, I didn’t have many friends growing up because people terrified me. My anxiety-addled brain was always preoccupied with what people were thinking about me; everything I said or did, the way I looked, or whether I was fun or interesting to be around (I wasn’t). These thoughts aren’t uncommon for people to think about in all stages of their lives. But for me, this was a preoccupation, and these questions determined how I felt about myself and whether I cared about myself or not.

From kindergarten to college, the preoccupation with the approval of others didn’t stop and it consumed me so that I didn’t care what I thought of myself; no words of self-encouragement or calmez-vous helped—not coming from me and, ironically, not from anyone else, either. Experiencing anxiety in social situations made me feel like I was in a constant chokehold. From raising my hand to answer questions in class to thinking about engaging in extracurricular activities in school, the hand of fear would always be squeezing my chest and rattling my limbs. At the end of the day, whatever the anxiety said was what I did. And my anxiety strongly suggested that I cultivate self-isolating behaviors and interests.  

So, by elementary school, my anxiety crumpled me up into this quiet and peculiar girl, earning me a spot just above the resident weirdos—the only two white students at a predominantly black school.  The other kids saw me as boring if not academically stellar. But that doesn’t usually count when it comes to making friends. When I was in first or second grade, I distinctly remember sitting alone at a lunch table (par for the course). There was a new girl at our school—tall and pretty with nice clothes and a cool book bag and accessories. I decided that I would dig into my pitiful self-confidence reserves and muster up the courage to make eye contact and smile at her. Maybe I would even say hello. And to my wild surprise, it worked.

I smiled, looked her in the eye, and said hello, and she returned it! She also smiled, looked me in the eye, and even sat down next to me. But, right after she sat down, I was so bewildered and terrified that my efforts worked that my lips ceased working. I was so caught up with my small victory that I failed to consider the next step: conversation. My mind went blank, and the yawning maw of dread swallowed my heart and brain whole. I could not think of a single thing to say, so my new potential friend got confused, then bored, and subsequently left. A few days later, I found her sitting with the pretty, well-dressed girls at lunch. So much for that. And that’s how elementary school went until my mother hauled our family on over from Willingboro, New Jersey to Hatboro-Horsham, Pennsylvania.

Although Pennsylvania’s quiet, wooded hills were a wonderful change compared to the loud suburbs of New Jersey, it did no favors for an anxiety-riddled tween moving to a crowded halfway house from her childhood home.

Switching schools, being the new kid, and learning a new social arena was all the stuff of my worst nightmares. But, over time, my classmates became slightly easier to talk to, despite the fact that making friends was still an elusive social custom. Instead of deep, unbreakable bonds, I developed many quasi-friendships to make up for a lacking greater whole. But, at twelve, I didn’t understand that and just floundered in nerves, panic, and an inability to properly express myself to others, all while trying to pretend that nothing was wrong and that all of my problems were in my head.

Finally, all of my problems followed me from Pennsylvania to another quiet mountain town in Connecticut. Abruptly leaving behind my semi-friendships left me with the mounting anxiety of making new friends, and it was worse than previous years. I spent my freshmen and sophomore year of high school as a social recluse; trying to build new quasi-relationships was both terrifying and exhausting. Compounded with being the new kid again, high school was a more anxious repeat of middle school without the buffer of quasi-friendships.

By the time I graduated high school, I felt lost in my personal, lonely socioeconomic gap that my anxiety created. I didn’t start college until six months after my high school career and starting a new phase in life is not the best thing for a tumultuous mind. While getting a job was the last thing my panicked brain wanted to deal with, the expanding vacuum in my pockets was louder than the domineering force of nerves in my head.

Interestingly, working became a catalyst for shifting the tide of hermitry. My normal routine of self-imposed isolation, hunger for human contact, and self-abasement for inaction began to shift. Having a job in the pharmaceutical industry was helpful because one can often find a friend due to sheer proximity. And opposing forces, such as irate customers and managers, caused me and my coworkers to unite and made cohesion for friendships much easier. Finally, I made my first true friend when I landed my first job and, six years later, through an anxiety-rushed ride, we are still close friends.

Since last year, I have identified and started treatment for my problems with anxiety, having fought and won a long battle against the voice in my head telling me that I didn’t really need therapy because I didn’t really have a problem. The small steps toward treatment that I’ve started have already given me so much strength and insight necessary to handle living with anxiety. The friends I have now know of my struggle with anxiety and still want to be in my life. That understanding is priceless and all anyone suffering from any mental illness wants from their relationships. After all these years, I feel more control over my illness than I ever have before, and my journey toward healing is just beginning.