Think back to 4th grade. Elementary school is supposed to be full of fun, sparkly poster projects, and gossiping about crushes. Based on my old journal entries from the 90s (since I don’t genuinely remember much), I only managed to experience tidbits of a typical childhood.

I was a sad, scared, and angry girl.

My brother required an extensive amount of attention growing up. He struggled with numerous behavioral disorders and learning disabilities, and I was granted a great deal of independence from a very young age as a result. On the outside, I could hold my own. On the inside, I was falling apart. For years, it was never apparent that something was wrong.

Until it was.

From what I’ve heard from others (link), fear kicked in (when I was) around six years old. I was traveling on a commuter train with my mother, brother, aunt, and cousins when we arrived at our stop. I waited in line behind the rest of the crew to step out. I watched everyone exit, but before I could follow, the train began to move. I watched my family shrink as I moved further down the tracks alone. My mother screamed. I wailed.

The train didn’t make it far before the conductor realized what was happening and stopped. It was too late; the damage was done.

That day, I met my anxiety.

When I was 11, I made a giant leap towards becoming a woman and welcoming additional mental illnesses into my life all at the same time. I wasn’t ready for puberty (I mean, who is at 11?), but it was ready for me. I stared at the blood, confused and scared.

Exactly one month later, I attended overnight camp for a week. Aside from occasional sleepovers, I had never been away from home before. Unfortunately, day one of camp perfectly coincided with month two of getting my period. I was overwhelmed. Given that everyone around me was also 11, no one else understood what was happening. Hell, I didn’t even get it.

I begged to go home. It didn’t go over well, and I was told I was “fine”. I wasn’t even allowed to call home. My counselors figured I was simply missing home because this was new territory in my life.

That night, I cried myself to sleep.

Each day for the rest of the week, I spent hours in the nurse’s office. She gave me flat soda to soothe my nausea, and a heating pad for my terrifying cramps. I wrote letters, begging my family to pick me up.

But I was still not allowed to call home.

My family had received only a couple of letters by the time camp ended. It was enough for them to show up as early as possible to scoop me up and get me out of that hellhole.

The relief was instantaneous. My period was on it’s way out, and my anxiety vanished for a short while upon seeing my family. I was finally free. Or so I thought.

When fall rolled around, I started missing school. Lots of school. I had constant, relentless stomachaches and headaches. I hid in bed, crying and hoping my mom would let me stay home “just one more time”. Once I had built up around a month’s worth of absences, I started visiting doctors. So very many doctors. General practitioners, specialists, everyone under the sun, and no one could find anything wrong with me.

I was “healthy”.

After a year of enduring scans and needles poking me all over, my mom finally brought me to see her psychiatrist. Within 10 minutes, I was diagnosed with separation anxiety disorder and prescribed my first of many anxiety medications.

I have very few memories of the next few years. However, I will never forget the day one of my classmates commented on my demeanor a few short weeks after I began downing those pills.

“You’re smiling! You look happy! You’re talking! What happened!?”

I was astounded. I never noticed how I presented myself to others before. I kept smiling, but I didn’t answer her question. I never did. While my mentality improved for a little while, I unknowingly stepped into an abyss full of silence and secrets. My mother instructed me to keep my life to myself, so for years, I never told another soul about what was happening inside my head.

What a mistake. Life didn’t improve long term. In fact, it spiraled out of control. Still, I stayed quiet and fought my endless internal battle on my own. My body and brain had officially decided to grow up, leaving my mind behind wallowing in my desperate need to be a child. Unfortunately, it was too late. I was already too far gone, and my childhood innocence was a thing of the past.

If I’ve learned anything from my childhood experiences, it’s that talking is absolutely essential. Don’t bottle it up. Talk to people you trust. That’s what families and friends are for. Explain that you’re struggling. If you don’t speak up, people can only make assumptions. Sometimes, they won’t have the slightest clue, and that’s not fair to you.

And please, talk to your children. They may be struggling silently, just like I did. It’s a terrible way to grow up. Give your children a shot at having the childhood they deserve.