Loves of her Life

Chapter Five: Finding Goodbye

   At eight years old, having anxiety was hard. It was confusing, frustrating, and totally isolating. I usually went to see Ms. Honeywater once a week, just to check in. It was strange, leaving the classroom, and having my friends asking me five million questions about where I was going all the time. At first, I tried to hide it, but dentist appointments, nausea, and family emergencies were only such good excuses and eventually they all wore thin. Going to see Ms. Honeywater made me feel totally abnormal but also really hopeful. The walk up to her office was always the worst part. Leaving class at the most inopportune times and making eye contact with students as I walked up the secluded ramp that only led to her office was totally embarrassing. As soon as I was with her though, it was like a breath of fresh air. Ms. Honeywater's office was bright; small details I hadn't noticed on the first day of meeting her had become more apparent to me over time. The room had light pink walls, with a border of small, delicately painted daisies circling the bottom perimeter. There was a huge window behind her desk and the sun was always streaming through, so when I sat in the huge chair in front of her I had to squint to see her sometimes. Ms. Honeywater had a bookshelf to the left of her desk that was taller than my dad. It was filled with books- comic books, children's books, novels for teens. Sometimes when I needed to unwind but didn't feel like talking, Ms. Honeywater would let me sit and read while she did paperwork. I had grown to love going to see her. Her office made me feel at home, comforted and accepted for exactly who I was. Most days I had a scheduled time, and even when I didn't, if I started to feel anxious Ms. Honeywater would take me in right away . She'd talk me through whatever thoughts or feelings I was having and make me feel like less of an outsider. Ms. Honeywater also had the funkiest outfits, which my eight-year-old-self greatly appreciated. Sometimes she'd have on a kaleidoscopic shirt with long dangly earrings, other days she'd be wearing a cheetah print jumper. She always looked different, but her optimistic attitude stayed constant no matter what. Her hair was bright red, and really, really curly. She usually had it pinned up into a giant mass of curls on the very top of her head. Her office was an escape for me, and when I look back on my childhood, it was one of the few places that I truly felt myself.

   Things got harder the older I got. When I graduated the fifth grade (only a couple years after I had met Ms. Honeywater), it was finally time for me to move on to middle school. The thought of abandoning the first source of support and understanding with my disorder only made my symptoms worse.

   Leaving behind Ms. Honeywater and all of the comforts that came along with elementary school was strange. I remember the last day quite well. After our grade had had a little ceremony, all of us kids were standing around with fruit punch juice boxes in hand, talking politely with the relatives who had come to celebrate with us. I had known that there was going to be a time when I had to say goodbye to the councilor who had helped me through everything. I saw her standing across the room, talking with some parents. Eventually I knew that I just had to do it. I walked over slowly to where she was standing, and hovered until she was finished her conversation.

   "Charlotte! Big day, huh? How are you feeling!"

   "I'm good." I said. I wanted to keep it short.

   When I realized I didn't have much else to say, I reached into my little handbag and pulled out the card I had made her. I had known that I wouldn't feel like spilling my guts in person, but Ms. Honeywater had been with me since I discovered my problem and I wanted to thank her. After handing her the card, I hesitated for a moment, then jumped forward to give her a huge hug. I smiled and laughed as we embraced.

   "Thank you, Ms. Honeywater. You're pretty cool." I said, smiling sheepishly.

   That was the only goodbye I could remember. It was the only one that really mattered to me, after all.

   The summer going into grade six was filled to the brim with anxiety. I had trouble doing daily activities more and more, and slowly started closing myself off. My mom was very good at helping me cope, in fact her and Ms. Honeywater had a lot in common. We would sit in my room for hours, talking about all my worries. She'd help me to face my fears as our days were filled with things that made me anxious. Swimming at the pool, Taylor Swift concerts, and group get togethers were all things that caused me to panic. I didn't understand why my anxiety was out of control at the time, but looking back it was the anticipation of a brand new school that caused me to be constantly on edge. Although my mom was more supportive than ever and sweeter than any woman I knew, I could see the worry in her eyes. I felt like a bad daughter for making her question her own abilities and choices as a mother. Sometimes I still wonder if she blames herself for my illness. My mom has always been my best friend in this world. It killed me to watch her struggle with my anxiety too, torturing herself for what I was going through. I tried to slap on a smile whenever I could, but she could always tell when something was off. Hailey was another big help; she was great at cheering me up and taking some of the nerves away without even realizing it. I was lucky to have such a wonderful family. The only one who didn't really understand my anxiety was my dad. Sometimes he'd get really silent and almost scared when I was in a worried state, all zoned out and consumed by my thoughts. One night, I heard him desperately asking my mom what the matter with me was, and why I wouldn't just smile like a normal kid. He didn't understand and seemed to think that I could change if I really wanted to. My dad loved me a lot and he just wanted to help, I knew that. He loved seeing me happy, so I did my best to pretend to be lighter around him. But my anxiety slowly caused us to lose our connection. It made me feel like I had lost yet another thing because of this stupid illness I couldn't control. My fear was taking over my life, and I knew that I had to do something about it fast.