When I was younger, I had separation anxiety.
I was fully aware I had a problem. I never wanted to be that way.
My parents were very aware. They did everything in their power to help—to allow me to step out of my comfort zone.
One way my parents would try to help me was to send me to day camps with my sisters. Because my sisters were older, we were constantly split into different groups.
I remember my parents dropped us off at an arts and crafts camp. My parents shared a concerned look as I received a yellow plastic bracelet, and my sisters both received red, indicating our separation. When I noticed, my heart began racing uncontrollably. My parents said their goodbyes and my six-year-old self stood alone, drenched in fear.
I felt betrayed.
All I could do was sob. I cried and begged to be switched into my sisters’ group. The camp counselors gave in and brought me to my sisters.
This wasn’t the first or last time this had happened. I used to observe the other kids as they played together. I watched as my sisters so easily made friends without needing our parents to guide them. Why couldn’t I be like them? How could something so simple for others be so challenging for me?
My first day of kindergarten was a mess. The whole morning, I couldn’t help but dread the thought of being alone. My mom did her best to keep me calm, and although it helped initially, things quickly changed. I edged into my class and immediately felt like deserting. My palms became damp, and my body started to tremble. Everything in that room faded away.
I was alone. Isolated. There seemed to be no way out of this darkness. Tears streamed down my uneasy face. If I didn’t calm down, I’d draw more unwanted attention to myself.
I looked around and saw I wasn’t the only one facing this.
From that day forward, things got easier for me.
That was, until, the pandemic. I was isolated once again, but the difference this time was that I was the person I had always wanted to be. I had what the younger version of myself always wanted. I could push myself outside of my comfort zone. However, that all disappeared after the lockdown.
I was thrown into the vicious social ranking of middle school. All my progress over the past seven years had abandoned me. I was right back to where I started.
I didn’t have the presence of my parents or siblings to reassure me. I wanted so badly not to be the anxious and insecure rendition of myself before the people who watched me bloom. Walking into that unwelcoming building full of overcritical middle schoolers, I felt the eyes of every student. I felt those judgemental eyes follow me everywhere. Those eyes burned me, leaving scars that would last the entirety of my life.
If my young self could’ve seen me there, I wonder how she’d perceive me. She blossomed into the social butterfly everyone knew she could be. But once that was taken away, I wondered if she was disappointed. I wondered if she saw that moment, she’d think we had no hope.
As I have matured, I’ve come to the realization that I don’t need to worry about not being accompanied at all times. I’ve grown to realize that I don’t need or want the presence of others to define me as a person. And although I no longer struggle with separation anxiety, I am still healing that younger version of myself.
