This is my story:
“And do you know who he was?”
They look at my parents, not me.
“No.”
Tugging on my dad’s sweatshirt sleeve trying to get his attention. He shrugs me off.
“OK. What was stolen?”
My lips part as if to answer but the voice that kept me strong and who I’ve always been able to rely on wouldn’t come to my rescue now. As I struggled to speak, I realized that they wouldn’t look at me. I feel the monster creep up through my body and pool at my eyes like tears. Why won’t they look at me? They look straight through me like a window to my parents. I am here. But they know best. They are here to protect me. The cops are supposed to protect me. So they can talk to him but I am right here. I know what was taken! LOOK AT ME!
The back that once held me high in pride starts to crumble beneath me and my lungs won’t expand like they are supposed to. Breathing gets shallow and my vision goes blurry. My mother’s protective hand lays on my shoulder, like a mama bear’s paw would protect her cub. My dad rattles off information proving his stance as the protector of our pack. A drop of water falls on my shirt. I look up to see where it’s coming from before I realize my eyes are dripping with tears. Every tear feels like I’m losing a little more. Drip. A little less confidence. Drip. A little more fear. Drip. A whole lot of defeat. But more than that I see my mother. Crying for the first time I can remember. Maybe she has a monster, too.
I always knew that there was a monster in my brain. Not the 6 headed monster that rips heads off, but a monster all the same. Reading The Odyssey in my soft bed, rough edges and phrases that could build me a village, I start to see the monster for who he is. I see that if I take a spear and drive it deep in his eye he will crumble into no more than dust. The battle won’t end but the monsters get easier to slay and the time between each fight becomes longer. Actually, my anxiety isn’t a monster; More of a siren trying to lure me in and trap me. A beauty when known but scary through stories. My anxiety will always be a fight. My siren will always be a fight. But won’t always be the fight I focus on.
