Personal Narrative: The Day I Remember

August tenth of 2013, is the last day I remember. For the next hundred or so days after the aforementioned one, I don’t have a clue as to how they happened. The hardest part was, perhaps, my crumbling again, anxiety like I’d never had before. But not on August tenth. The first day of a new team and the last day of supposed sanity, I distinctly remember being afraid to be left alone with the then strangers. That had become the norm for me.
Eighth grade. At this time I was moving forward, slowly befriending my nameless best friend, leaving all of the others behind. After all, everything else was changing. In seventh grade, I was medicated, Focalin as the drug of choice. The many side effects I’d experienced made them switch me over to Vyvanse, the great suppressant. My grades skyrocketed back to the A 's they 'd been in elementary school. That was May of 2013. This was August. The new school year had brought hope as it coincided with the supposed end of an era of a great depression. My meds were no longer controlling me as they had before and it was almost immediately apparent in all aspects of my work. I’d like to say that i 'm not stupid, but this should have ended there. Not only was I failing to turn in work that’d been done that class but I was suffering at practice, too. I found that I couldn’t sleep, or really think without the buzzing of so many other thoughts intercepting my main focus. What had been only a minor pain had intensified to an auditory annoyance now that I’d tasted a life without them, I could hear my thoughts as they shuffled about, but I knew better than to express that aloud. Instead, I returned to an older, more secretive method of writing them down, letting them spill from my hands. Pages upon pages in various inks; once again I was living within myself, and at this point I’d call it September. A large part of me would gladly lay out every emotion I could, every detail, what led to what and how did I know? but that’s the problem with disorder. To come from my medication-controlled filing cabinet of thoughts meant slipping so slowly it never made a conscious leap, I think that somehow I knew that. Irritability was my biggest problem. But maybe that was the starving. As sensitive as it is, it requires explaining. At 12, I’d been 187 pounds. I hated myself, what people said, how I was seen, I was depressed. My nutritionist “fixed” everything, by fueling an obsession, by sparking a disease, she created the plot of this story. October. I wanted to be perfect, I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that would make me that way, but I was willing to do it. Despite the increasingly obvious disappointment that my teachers and coaches displayed to me, I felt both in and out of control of myself, more so than I ever had before; It wasn’t a good feeling, not at …show more content…
That was the problem with my newfound self-reliance, I was too afraid to admit that I was sinking. This was November and my first glimmer of a silver lining in the B-C average I 'd created for myself. Somehow I 'd made it through the malnourishment and holiday practices, and brought myself to an A-B report card. But that didn 't mean I was above the surface yet. Ever since before I’d started school, I was considered gifted, it was a characteristic of mine, it was me, a title I held in high regard and appreciated as it made the bullying tolerable, they could mock my mental capabilities because they were a gift, something that they lacked, but now I was back to being that twelve year old girl who was constantly questioning her every move, unable to decipher whether it was the anxiety or ADHD that was deciding how and what and when she would be capable of so much as breathing correctly; and if she wasn’t hyperventilating it was the sweaty palms and heart palpitations she had to worry over. Yes, my grades looked a little better, but all who cared about those knew I was being bothered by much more than my feigned