A/N: All names (except for my own) have been changed for identity protection.

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I thought I was pretty normal as a kid. Fun loving, independent, athletic, feisty. I had an abundance of friends, I was pretty smart, and overall, I was happy. So, in fifth grade when I experienced my first panic attack, I didn't know that it would change me from that day forward.

In elementary school, the last thing you expect to experience is something as inconsolable as a panic attack. As kids, you're not worried about the complexity of your mind. The most nerve-wracking thing you had to deal with is long division and multiplication. Kids aren't supposed to worry about serious matters. They're supposed to worry about what they're going to play during recess (for me it was countless rounds of four-square and chasing the boys who would pull my hair).

I was ten years old when I physically and emotionally felt the intensity of an anxiety. But back then, I didn't know that was what it was.

There was no trigger. It just came out of nowhere.

It was the middle of the school year and I was working on a math worksheet. I gripped my pencil tightly, feeling a slight constriction in my chest. I took a deep breath or at least I tried to, but I couldn't feel the satisfaction oxygen normally brought. My eyes closed shut as I tried to focus on breathing but nothing worked. When I opened them, I fixated on the pencil as is shook in my trembling hand. It was nearing ninety degrees in Texas, so there should have been no reason for me to be shaking as badly as I was.

It was as I was attempting to debunk each foreign symptom when my vision began to blur. The salty water filled to the brim of my eyes, making it obvious to me that something was not right.

I'm not sad, I shouldn't be crying, I thought to myself.

I could feel my classmate's eyes burning holes in me and hear the whispers of judgment. Unsure how to handle the situation, I got up from my desk and went to my teacher Ms. Goldfield. When I got to her desk, I tried speaking but all that came out was incoherent sobs.

"What?" she asked, patiently waiting for me to calm myself down long enough to tell her what's wrong which was proving harder as each second passed.

"Can I c-call my m-mom?" I finally asked, tears already streaming down my cheeks.

"Are you okay, Rebecca?"

I could tell by her expression that she was surprised I was crying. It's not every day when you see one of your students burst into tears and lose all capability to function normally, so I guess she had the right to be as surprised as she was.

I nodded, trying my hardest to push down the sobs and not make a scene, but that plan flew out the window the minute the first tear fell.

I am okay, I thought. Why wouldn't I be?

Ms. Goldfield handed me the bulky cell phone and I stepped outside of the portable classroom and into the blistering heat where I sat on the metal steps. Struggling to dial my mom's phone number, I steadied my shaking hands long enough to press each button.

Waiting through the dial tone was tortuous. People aren't kidding when time seems to go by ten times slower when you're anxious. A sense of relief filled my veins when I finally heard her voice come through the earpiece.

"Hello?" Mom answered.

Large tears fell from my eyes, one after another and my sobs became louder.

"Rebecca?" she called, recognizing the sound of my voice.

"Mommy," I croaked, completely overwhelmed by the massive amount of emotions flowing through me.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?" she asked in her soothing, motherly tone.

"I don't know," I said, and that was the truth.

I didn't know what was going on or what was wrong with me. Never had I felt such a strong urge to get away from somewhere. I wanted to go home and lie in bed. I wanted to hug my mom and have her rub my back. I just wanted to get as far away from school as possible.

"Make it stop," I chanted breathlessly.

My chest hurt so much and the tears were never ending. I was scared of what was happening and I thought I was going to die when I started to practically hyperventilate.

"Breathe, it's okay," Mom said.

I nodded even though she couldn't see me and did as told. It took every bit of self-control to inhale without choking on my sobs. A sharp pain stabbed my chest with each breath.

"I want to go home," I said, dropping my head into my bent knees. "Please, I just want to go home," I begged.

"Okay, I'm leaving work now. Just hang tight and I'll be there soon," she said.

I couldn't answer, I could only cry harder, as if that was going to get her here faster. She told me to go back to class and wait for me. I told her okay but that was the last thing I wanted to do. After she hung up, I gripped the phone tightly in my hand and continued to just sit and cry.

I'm sure everyone inside the classroom could hear me. The thin metal walls weren't very soundproof and any noise that came from outside was amplified inside. How could I go back in there when they heard me acting like a baby for no reason? They were probably making fun of me. Eventually, Ms. Goldfield came out of the classroom and sat next to me.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Why are you crying?"

If I had known, I wouldn't be crying harder over the fact that I didn't know.

"Is your mom picking you up?"

I nodded quickly, wiping my damp cheeks.

"Okay, let's go inside so you can wait for her."

I shook my head. I was a crying mess. There was no way I could go inside without someone saying something. Even if I wasn't covered in tears, someone would most likely say something. So, both options were a no-go for me.

Ms. Goldfield tugged on my arm, trying to pull me up, but I dropped my weight and pulled away.

"No," I cried. "Please, no."

She continued to pull me up and it felt as if someone was squeezing my body, the pressure making it impossible to move.

"You can't stay out here. You have to go inside," she said.

"I want my mom," I cried louder, pressing my palm over my heart to suppress the stinging pain.

"She's coming," Ms. Goldfield assured. "We're just going to wait for her inside, okay?"

As much as I didn't want to, she gently pulled me inside the classroom where I became the center of attention. I furiously wiped my eyes with my hands, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown but it was of no use.

I could feel my heart rapidly beating against my chest and I thought for a second that everyone could hear it. I choked on my sobs and slowly walked back to my desk. As soon as I sat down, the students around me bombarded me with questions.

"Why are you crying?"

"Are you okay?"

"What's the matter?"

I didn't have an answer for any of their questions. I was barely able to lie and tell them that I was okay just so that they would stop hammering me.

"Leave Rebecca alone," Ms. Goldfield said. "She's not feeling well."

'Not feeling well' was an understatement. I was miserable, confused, scared. I wanted to hightail out of this classroom and run as far as I could. Maybe then I wouldn't feel like I was trapped in a box without an escape.

I crossed my arms on my desk and rested my head in them, waiting for this scary feeling to subside but it never did. The intensity wasn't as bad, but it continued to linger.

Finally, after half an hour, I was called to the front office where my mom waited to pick me up. I grabbed my backpack and threw it over my shoulders before rushing out of the classroom, to the main school building, and to the front office. I started crying again when I caught a glimpse of my mom. I was relieved to see her, but scared that she would be mad at me for having to leave work to pick me up. I felt the pain in my chest again, slowly increasing in pressure. I ran up to her and hugged her body tightly, crying into her shirt.

"It's okay, we're going home," Mom said, brushing my hair with her hand.

I clung onto her as we walked out of the building and to her car. She had to help me with my seatbelt because my trembling hands couldn't grasp the buckle.

I'm a big girl, I should be able to do this, I thought to myself. I'm such a baby.

On the drive home, Mom glanced over to me constantly, checking to make sure I was okay. At this point, my cheeks were tear-stained and all that left my mouth were tiny whimpers. I had calmed down for the most part. I could still feel the invisible pressure on my body, but at least the crying stopped.

"Why were you crying?" Mom asked softly, careful not to use the wrong tone just in case I might cry again.

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said.

"Is it because Daddy isn't here?"

My dad was stationed in Ft. Hood, Texas, training soldiers who were being deployed to Afghanistan. As a daddy's girl and Army brat, of course it was hard to not have him around every day like I used to, but I was okay with it. Seeing him off was the hardest part, but that was probably because when the buses carrying all the soldiers took off, a little girl bolted after them, trying to catch up with it as she cried for her dad before tripping and falling. I didn't cry when I told him goodbye. I was sad, but I knew I would still see him on weekends, so it didn't bother me much.

"No," I replied, shaking my head.

"Then why?" she pushed.

"I don't know," I said, my lip quivering.

"It's okay, don't cry," she said, quietly shushing me and rubbing my arm. "We're almost home."

I stared out the window for the remainder of the trip, watching everything blur past us as I wracked my brain trying to figure out what happened to me. I gave up once we got home. I headed straight to my room, kicking off my shoes and then crawling into bed where the tears fell once again.

Mom told me not to worry and to take a nap, both of which seemed impossible, but my body was so weak to the point where it only took a few minutes before I was out. I felt emotionally and physically exhausted. Like I had gone to a funeral and ran a marathon all in one day.

When I woke up, Mom didn't try pushing for answers because she realized that I was incapable of giving answers. She was just as confused as me. Everything went on as normal the following day and every day after that. I didn't experience anything as traumatizing like that again until the following school year, but I'll get to that later.

Twelve years later, that day continues to be fresh and vivid in my mind. It was the first time I felt inexpressible fear. I never wanted to feel that way again, but that wasn't up to me. That was just the beginning of my struggle.

When you look at someone with a mental illness, they don't look any different from you and me. It's not visible unless you make it visible. You can go an entire lifetime hiding the instability of your mind and no one would know. That's what makes mental illness tricky; it can go unnoticed.

The mask you wear is so deceiving and you feel almost upset when people can't see behind your façade, but then again, you don't want anyone to see. You want to hide, be invisible. But then you feel conflicted because you don't want to be different.

It's a vicious cycle of wanting people to see who you really are and wanting to feel normal. And the worst thing is when you realize that you'll never be normal. It's a farfetched dream that you can try your hardest to achieve but it can never be fully fulfilled because that's the thing with mental illness. There will always be a part that lingers within you. You strive to be normal and won't reach it, but that's okay.

Because no one is actually "normal" and it took years before I realized that myself.