I don't claim to have it the worst. I used to suffer from severe self-destructive suicidal depression and Adult Separation Anxiety. These two problems did not tango well together. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps they tangoed a little too well. For months, my life was nothing but a cycle of becoming deathly afraid, experiencing a panic attack, getting angry, hating myself for experiencing a panic attack, wanting to kill myself, then slowly recovering until something triggered another attack. This happened just about daily.

I lacked the motivation to do anything. I never left the house. I only left my room, which was constantly dark and cold, to eat [and I would often stash food in my room so I wouldn't have to leave as much] and use the bathroom. I only showered about once a month, once I noticed my skin starting to change colour. I only used the bathroom around once a day. I had several UTIs due to bad hygeine and holding it for so long. I also gained weight from lack of exercise as well as my habit of eating as a form of comfort. I was normally only awake at night because being awake during the day subjected me to the fights in my house and verbal abuse by the hands of my aunt and uncle. My parents didn't know how to handle the panic attacks.

I used to confide in my aunt because she had me convinced that my parents would disown me and that she was the only one that was willing to listen to me or help me. My uncle was extremely condescending, constantly insulting and mocking me. One morning after my dad dropped the coffee table on the ground instead of hitting my uncle during an arguement, he insulted me particularly badly, talking about how I'm just like my father, and called me a circus freak playing dress-up.

Always being in my room was awful. My paranoia spiked. We often had rats in the walls, and they would scratch around during all hours. On the upper wall [not the ceiling] of my downstairs room right above my bed was a trap door. No idea where it led, didn't care. I was convinced the sounds of the rats scratching around inside the walls was them scurrying around with tiny clipboards, filled with reports on me. That they were constantly studying me and judging me.

One afternoon in January 2012 after my mother had moved to Texas on her own to get help, I had a particularly bad panic attack. I was so scared I continually screamed at the top of my lungs. There were only two people in the house. My dad was outside shoveling snow. I heard a threat from upstairs -- "if you don't shut the **** up I'm going to hit you" -- this only made me more terrified and made me scream more, louder.

Sure enough, I was hit. I was hit so hard I fell to the floor, my glasses fell off, and I couldn't see anything but red. I was convinced I'd lost my right eye and that I was bleeding profusely from the eyesocket. That was when Dad came inside.

I didn't lose my eye, obviously. My glasses shielded it. The frames cut into the skin right below my eye, and I needed to get stitches. During any other time of the year, I probably would have. You see, we lived in rural Washington, on top of a steep hill, and we were snowed in. The roads were covered in ice. Trying to drive down that hill would be suicide. [And, of course, I honestly wanted my dad to attempt it at the time. I desperately wanted to see a doctor, not because of the bleeding from my ****ing face, but because I wanted to be fixed.] So we had to keep me at home. I was told not to cry because it would wet the bandages, but could you expect me not to? I was a disaster.

Next month, we moved to a temporary home in Las Vegas [my home town] while my mother was still in Texas, and for a little while things were a lot better. My aunt and uncle were in another state. I lived with less people.

This continued until around May 2012. My anxiety and depression flared back up in full force. I always kept my door open so it seemed like I was never alone. This got me into lots of trouble when I had panic attacks -- one time my dad chased me all around the house threatening to call the cops so I'd be put in an asylum [when he picked up the phone he ended up calling my mother instead]. Sometimes someone would come into my room while I slept and would unplug my computer because my music was playing. This would naturally wake me up, as I have stated before that I cannot handle silence, and this ruined any degree of trust I had. I no longer felt safe. My panic attacks worsened.

Then a few days before our move to Texas was scheduled to happen, I was left to be completely by myself. For two days. I became so depressed and sick that I puked multiple times. It might be comparable to a withdrawal, since I had Separation Anxiety, though I'm not sure since I don't know what a withdrawal is like. After those two days the best friend that I now call my brother came to visit me. For three days we marathoned ATLA. Then the last day was moving day. My brother had to stay behind. He couldn't come with us. I still remember watching him run after our Uhaul truck for as long as he could keep up with it, making sure I could still see him for as long as possible.

I cried the whole way to Texas, and I started crying again when we arrived and I saw my mother again for the first time in months. As soon as she saw me she told me it was going to be alright.

During the first two weeks of our move into the new house, I forced myself to stay in my room by myself. I forced myself to stand being in the silence. After that, I forced myself to stay out of my room as much as possible and I went outside. I exposed myself to everything I could think of that scared me.

And while I still miss my brother more than anything in the world, Mom was right, everything was alright.