Rudy wasn’t eating.

He’d cautiously approach his bowl, try to eat, and the bowl would

move. He’d stop. Circle. Try again. After a few times, he walked over and sat down in front of

me, staring, asking with his sad dog eyes for me to fix this. When things go wrong for Rudy,

such as when his toy gets stuck under a table or accidentally trapped in a room, I fix them. I

realized that what he wanted me to fix was his bowl. Rudy doesn’t like change; he has anxiety.

He was used to a ceramic bowl, but my mom had put his food in a paper bowl because the

dishwasher was broken. I realized that what was upsetting Rudy about his bowl was that it was

moving, so I taped the paper bowl the food was in to the inside of a dirty ceramic bowl.

Eventually he got hungry enough to summon the courage to test it one more time, and when the

bowl didn’t move, he was finally able to eat his dinner. I understand Rudy, and his anxiety – I

also have anxiety.

It started when I visited Australia with my mom when I was five-years old. She was there

for a work trip, so during the day I had a nanny. One day the nanny took me to the park. I was

playing on the jungle gym when she disappeared. She had just wandered away from the

playground a bit to take a phone call, but I thought she was gone. I went for days without

sleeping after that. I loved Australia, but was petrified the rest of the trip that I’d be left alone.

When I was five, my parents divorced. Maybe it’s not surprising that I had fear of being

abandoned. I didn’t know it at the time, but my dad was an alcoholic. Starting when I was five or

six, he’d leave me alone to go drink at the boat club. I knew I couldn’t take care of myself. When

I was seven I suffered a major concussion, yet he still left me sitting on the couch to go drink.

When I started throwing up, I called my mom, who took me to the hospital. I threw up the entire
way there. My parents seemed distracted by life (even mom, who was always working or in

school), and it was easier to just pretend everything was okay.

My mom and I tried many things to quiet the voice of anxiety, including using essential

oils, therapists, and various strategies. These would help for a short time, but then the anxiety

would come back stronger and more aggressively. I thought I was going to die. I felt alone, until

I realized I could talk to my anxiety. When I started to engage with my anxiety, things started to

get better. I had someone to talk to, even though it was just me. I talk through the worst thing that

could happen, and the best, and this has changed my life. I climbed out of depression and started

going to the beach, hanging out with friends, and playing sports. I learned I could engage with

and help manifest my dreams even with anxiety.

The only way for me to describe how having anxiety feels is to relate it to color. Color is

something most of us take for granted. Having anxiety and depression is similar to being

colorblind; life becomes dull and gray. Although other people with anxiety might describe it as a

burden, I’ve learned to make friends with my anxiety, and we talk things through together.

Without the anxiety voice pushing me away from suicide, I don’t think I would be writing this

essay today. Now when people meet me, they have no idea I have anxiety. They see the happy,

confident, and mostly carefree teenager I have become.