The Opposite of Falling Apart [Formerly Three and a Half Good Legs]

Be Ok: Me and Anxiety

One of my English class assignments was to create a multi-genre project. For my final piece, I was allowed to pick the genre. Being a writer, I chose the narrative genre, but decided to combine my love of doodling with my love of writing and create a combination print and graphic memoir. I'm including it here, because this...is me. This is what this story was born out of. You might even recognize some pieces of Brennan's story in mine. You might also notice that Wattpad poster on the wall in the illustration; clearly my love of Wattpad has seeped into my school assignments!

The captions on the illustrations are part of the story, and are meant to be read in conjunction with it. When you get to the picture, read that line, as it's meant to be part of the story.

For those of you who have anxiety: I know it doesn't seem like it, but it really will be ok.

_

I Will Be Ok

I was seven. We were late to church and my Sunday school class, with the other seven-year-old children already seated around the little circular tables, crayons scrawling and voices chattering, took on the form of a vengeful audience. In my mind, they would all turn and look at me as soon as I entered the room. They would all whisper among themselves about how late I was, and how I was the last one there.

After all, hadn't I agonized over the minutes that passed—hadn't I waited anxiously by the door, ready to go, as my parents struggled to wrangle my other three siblings and get ready themselves—watching the big hand on the clock in our living room tick-tick-tick closer and closer to 'late'? Now, my stomach turned as I stood in the hall, trying to convince my dad not to make me go in. My pulse hammered in my ears, my heart beating a steady rhythm like a drum. Hot tears pricked my eyes. Everything was hot, from my face to the tips of my ears. "I'm sick; my stomach hurts," I told my dad. And it did. "You'll be ok," he said.

I was nine. My dad was in the front seat, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in frustration.