I remember when I was in kindergarten. There was this girl who had beautiful long “banana” curls. Now, I do not know for sure if that was the actual name for the curls, but it was the kind of curls Cindy Brady had. (If that helps.) Anyway, my poker straight hair would never hold that kind of curl. But, back to this girl. She is my first remembrance of wishing I was someone else.      

As I grew older and anxiety became a bigger part of my life; I wished to be someone else more often. I used to lay in bed at night sometimes and ask my older sister questions. I would grill her on how she lives without all of the worry that I lived with. I couldn’t figure out how she did it. I can remember longing to have her brain. I would close my eyes and think — let me open them as someone else. Sometimes I would watch random people wondering if they struggled to make it through the day like I did. I loved life, but my mind was turning on me. The struggle became intense. At times, something that I would be worried about would completely take over my life. I would be obsessed about it for days. It didn’t matter what logical comment was made to me about it; my mind was sure that I was correct.  NOBODY understood how I felt. My poor mother tried to.

So, I hate the fact that I still find me wishing I was someone else. I ponder whether or not I will ever be without depression or anxiety. The prospects do not look too hopeful.