A/N: Some events will be made up, but most are events I myself experienced and are still dealing with.
Breathe, I tell myself. I need to breathe. But I can’t- There’s not enough air. The space in my neck-pipe is too small, too narrow. Breathe. Breathe. It’s my asthma. It must be my asthma. I need more air. I need my medicine. I can’t breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Sam? Sam, relax. You need to take deep breaths,” I barely hear my mom say, as she puts a hand on my shoulder. Her voice isn’t clear. My hands are shaking. My legs are shaking. Everything is shaking. Breathe. Breathe.
“Mom I can’t breathe. I need more air. My medicine- I-I- need medicine!,” I exclaim, albeit voice so shaky its barely understandable to anyone but myself.
“No, Sam! Sam, listen to me. You don’t need medicine. Relax.” My mom is on the verge of yelling, but I can’t comprehend her words. They’re not true. She’s lying. I can’t breathe. The space in my neck-pipe is getting smaller. I grab my neck out of reflex.
“Samantha?!” my mom calls, but I shake my head, no. She doesn’t get it! She doesn’t know how I feel!
“Go away, mom! I don’t- just go away,” I cry, breathing unevenly. “Leave me alone,” I finish in a stutter, and my mom’s hand retreats from my shoulder, and I immediately regret talking so harshly to her, but I don’t have excess time to apologize right now. I take a sharp intake of air, and hold a hand up before my mouth, as the tears continue to form in my eyes.
1st Entry, Monday, 10th of February, 2014
Diary, my dear diary,
let me tell you, it hasn’t always been this bad, my anxiety, but I can’t deny it has become worse. A lot worse to say the least. But perhaps you already know that, if you have been listening on me from that drawer of mine. Am I supposed to feel sorry for not writing to you before now? Actually this whole diary thing was my mom’s idea, and I honestly don’t know how this whole thing works. Maybe I should start out with introducing myself to you? Or would that be weird? Either way, my name is Samantha, or ‘Sam’ as my friends call me, and I’m the kind of girl who always sits in the back of the classroom without saying anything. I don’t do sports, and I absolutely hate P.E., oh, and then I have a little problem with anxiety, if you didn’t already catch that.
Yesterday I heard my mom talking to my dad about me seeing a psychologist, but honestly I’m not too keen on the idea, and it seemed my dad wasn’t either. I don’t think it’s that bad. I don’t need to sit down and talk with some random person about my feelings for an hour each week. It has gotten worse but it’s definitely not that bad. And I’m not like that goth girl, Diana, from my parallel class. She’s just weird. I don’t even know how to describe her. She’s probably nice and all, but I rarely see anyone talking to her, and she always sits alone on bench in a courtyard. I don’t want my friends too think I’m like that. Because I’m not. Sorry am I rambling now? I didn’t mean for this to turn into a rant, but I guess that’s too late now. Oh well, It’s not like you’re going to tell anyone anyway, right?
I really need to go now because my mom is yelling at me to come from downstairs, but I will try to write another entry as soon as I know more about the whole psychologist thing. I need to prove, that I don’t need that kind of help, and also, I know this got kind of short, but I will be back. I promise!
Bye for now,