Might be a quarter-life crisis

Toward the end of 2011, I found myself reflecting on years and experiences past. Perhaps it's because 2012 marks a quarter of a century that I've been alive. I think John Mayer's lyrics reflect my feelings: "It might be a quarter-life crisis or just the stirring in my soul."

Years and experiences past have a way of catching up to you. After reading a friend's blog, I decided writing may be the best therapy. She mentioned something in passing that finally made me realize that I'm not alone in my feelings.

I struggle with anxiety.

Perhaps there were minor signs of my struggles in my early childhood, however, they didn't present any real problems. The first anxiety experience that interfered with my normal day-to-day life happened the summer going into sixth grade.

Time to rewind a bit. Fifth grade had not been a proud year. Have you ever seen "Mean Girls"? Pretty similar. I'm not normally a mean person, but if you were going to be in the "in" crowd, you needed to act like it. By the end of the year, I realized that I didn't like who I'd become. I wasn't acting like myself at all. I needed to break ties with my friends.

Breaking away from the queen bee was no picnic. Who wants to be a social pariah? No kid wants to start middle school without a guarantee of a best friend or even a group of friends.

I missed my first day of summer school band because I could not bear to enter the building. I wasn't surrounded by strangers; a lot of these people were kids I had known since kindergarten. I could tell my mom was frustrated with my inexplicable refusal to enter the building. I begged her not to make me go.

The next day was no better. For breakfast, I choked down a piece of toast. The toast stayed in my stomach for about 10 minutes. I couldn't eat. I constantly felt nauseous.

Despite my pleadings, my mom felt it was best that I face my fears. I faced my fears in tears. A hug and a kiss from my mom, and I was thrust into the classroom. As I said before, I knew people in the class. I'll always remember Angie Fieldhouse's kindness. I hadn't been particularly nice to Angie in fifth grade. Despite that, she took me in her arms and told me it would be OK.

That summer was a constant struggle. Eating became a chore. Going to summer band became easier, but other areas of my life took on new difficulties.

Playing softball became harder as I ate less. Not eating tends to make one feel ill. I remember sitting on the bench during a game. My mom (my coach) was trying to cajole me out on the field. She asked me to pitch, and I said I just wanted to go home. That's when she knew there was something wrong. We went home and worked on hydration and eating. Summer tournaments were especially difficult; we were out in the heat all day, and my main source of nourishment came from sucking the juice out of oranges and Goldfish crackers.

We talked to the doctor, and he found nothing wrong. He felt it was simply nerves, what with starting middle school and all.

Life started to get a little easier, and I was able to eat more.

Unfortunately, that summer was merely an introduction to the world of anxiety.