Rage. Anger. Frustration. These aren’t the feelings you’d expect a child to be consumed with. Not at seven-years-old. But that was me. There was no good reason for how I felt. Nothing I could point to or blame. I lived in a good neighbourhood. Had a twin sister I adored. Grew up in a supportive environment. But none of that mattered.

I was very aware of what was going on around me. Probably more aware than most kids. I knew kids were carefree. I knew they wanted to laugh and play. I knew they were normal, happy kids. Among them I felt like an alien. Like I was in a messed up horror movie.

My twin was like a broken mirror. She was a version of me with friends. A version who enjoyed life. Who looked forward to the day. Who laughed. Who loved. Who was capable of being loved. She seemed to breeze through life and I became deeply, deeply resentful. She was an ever present reminder that I was different. Broken. And that’s a horrible way to feel about someone you love so much.

By about grade 7, my rage had turned into full-blown anxiety and agoraphobia. It’s like the world closed in. Every whisper was about me. Every cloud meant a tornado. I couldn’t leave the house. The only place in the whole world I felt comfortable was in bed. Safe and protected.

I became a huge hypochondriac. Scared of my own shadow. I disconnected from my day-to-day life. I ended up with no friends, no structure, no routine. I couldn’t get out of bed until 1pm most days. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be the person who is excited to get up and be a productive member of society. But I couldn’t. I felt heavy. Gross. Lazy.

Every day I felt like I was pulling myself through mud. I had permanent anxiety tummy. I had no routine. I was so tired I couldn’t put it into words. I started missing a lot of school in grade 10. Right before grade 11 started I fainted. For the first time ever. I felt like I was actually dying. That was my first panic attack.

I was hospitalized and diagnosed with panic disorder. This was an intense period for me because I started missing even larger chunks of school. I became dissociative.

I couldn’t take the bus. I didn’t know where I was. My sister once saw me walk right out into the middle of a busy road when we were trying to get home from school.

During this time it’s like my life was happening in third person. I was so detached. I remember watching myself walk through the halls. Seeing every conversation like I was someone else. If I looked away I’d miss what was happening. I’d lose whole chunks of time. I would lie in bed at night and not remember if I had been into the kitchen that day. If I had eaten at all.

At that time I didn’t want to be here anymore. I spent my life either in bed or at therapy. My suicidal thoughts intensified. I really believed the only way to get relief was just to end it all. I physically couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. My depression was stronger than my will. I just didn’t want to live.