Midnight, or perhaps an hour earlier. Scattered papers blanket my desk, their unsolved math problems glaring disapprovingly at me in the dark. The dark room seeps into my brain, cultivating flurries of anxious thoughts and spiraling scenarios that if under the sun would be logically impossible. If I can’t even do the easiest unit in class, what happens later in the year? I essentially failed this test, so it can only drop further. This is going to be Algebra 1 all over again, or I can drop out, but I can’t tell which is worse. 

Failed, failed, failed! The word runs circles around my mind, laughing and mocking my situation, throwing a confetti of tears in my face. They sting, morphing into hundreds of bees that ferociously attack my skin, paralyzing me. It hurts, I want to say, but I can’t breathe. Something in the dark has constricted my throat, forcing me to suck in oxygen through a thin pipe. I’ve lost control of my breathing, and my lungs have gained a mind of their own as they desperately pump air in and out.  I can hear myself making grotesque noises as my breath hurls up and down my throat. 

Time passes in a wormhole of confusion as I curl into a fetus position, hoping to calm myself down as the room spins around me. My thick blanket cocoons me, scorches me, but my limbs won’t move to get it off. Despite the darkness I can tell my eyesight is fading in and out, my head lolling like a bowling ball. The stinging seems to have permeated my brain, creating a fuzzy fog that blurs my senses.

I don’t know when I finally fell asleep, but the next morning I’m faced with horribly puffy eyes that make me look like I was actually stung by bees.

Sometimes, these anxiety attacks last for only a few minutes. Other times, they turn into hours. I can never predict when one is about to arrive, or when it ends. Usually, I have no choice but to go on with my day, knowing there’s nothing I can do to prevent another. Everytime, I try to push it to the back of my head, stubbornly ignoring the mental timer that ticks down to the inevitable next one. 

This is the fifth attack I’ve had. The thought follows me silently throughout the day, weaving with me through the crush of students in the halls. Should I tell my mom? The last time I told her, I received the impression that she didn’t really understand. Looking at me with concern (and perhaps a bit of disappointment), she said, “You need to calm down,” and sent me off to bed. It felt as if a hazy film separated us, her being unused to the idea of mental health and me not knowing whether I need help or not.

As with everything, I try to solve the problem by myself first. This attack stemmed from me being unable to do math. Does this mean I should try harder, or that I should stop trying altogether? If I stop, wouldn’t that look bad in front of colleges? But what if I get worse? My thoughts follow each other like dogs at a park as I stare blankly at the front board of my AP World History class, clicking my pen absentmindedly. Should I tell my counselor? She wasn’t much help last time though. “Jiayin,” Ms. V says, and I’m snapped back to reality. “Please stop clicking your pen, it’s distracting.” 

“Oh, sorry,” I reply, and the embarrassment of the moment drowns out the rest of my thoughts. The timer keeps ticking, but I don’t notice.