Many things have changed. Friends were gained, then they were lost. Birthdays passed – seven of them, actually. Interests changed, and the posters on the walls were switched. However, throughout all of this, there has been one constant: You. 

You've been here for as long as I can remember. You're with me all day, and you invade my thoughts every night. I can't imagine that anyone knows me as well as you. You've seen me at my best, and most definitely at my worst. For every high and every low, you've been there.

 
I met you in sixth grade. When everyone split into friend groups, I was left alone. Then you found me. You explained everything to me, made me know why it had happened. I didn't know you very well, but your words made so much sense, I couldn't help but believe them. 

The next year, I found myself in the place everyone looks back on with regret: Middle School. As I stepped through the doors, you were right there with me. Turned out that you were right about a lot of things; seventh grade brought with it a whole new pile of worries. 

When the bullies started coming, you helped explain it. You made me understand why it was happening, why they chose to abuse me but not everyone else. I trusted everything you said, even though I didn't know you very well. I didn't even know your name, but I was hanging on your every word. 

Come eighth grade, your voice only grew louder. I started to doubt you then; I wasn't so sure you were helping me anymore. However, your words were so captivating, I listened to every single one. 

People started to notice the change. They didn’t think much of it; they all assumed I was "just shy." Little did they know that you were with me all the time.

 
I was hopeful as I left middle school; the High School seemed so full of promise. I felt so sure that you would stop bothering me, that I would live the perfect teenage life.

 
My hopes were shattered the minute I walked through the doors. Everything was too foreign, too different. The upperclassmen looked down at me with annoyance, and the halls felt like an overcrowded prison. You didn't help – you only encouraged the nervous thoughts in my head. I still wasn't sure who you were, but I was sure of one thing: you weren't my friend. You never had been. 

It was partway into my freshman year when I finally learned your name: Anxiety. 

My thoughts were crowded with a number of emotions in the aftermath. Why hadn't I realized it sooner? Why were you there? Why couldn't I get rid of you? Why did you hate me?
All of these questions, and you didn’t answer a single one. I could nearly imagine you, standing with a smug smile on your face.

 
One thing prevailed over all of the other things buzzing through my mind: Fear.

 
I was afraid. I had seen the kids at school who knew you – they looked so sad, so hopeless. I didn't know what would happen to me. What if it got worse? What if I couldn't find a way out? What if I was stuck with you forever? What if...what if I got so frustrated that I just ended it all? I was so scared that I would become a sad story in the newspaper.

 
I did my best to ignore you, I really did. But you were loud. So, so loud. I tried to take your weight off of my shoulders. I'd leave it on the ground beside me. But you wouldn't have that. Like an infant, you would scream for me, overtaking all of my thoughts until I picked you back up, cradling you. I don't know why I would do it. You certainly didn't deserve it. 

Sophomore year, you were still there. I was so tired of you. I wanted you gone, yet whenever I opened my mouth for help, you were there to hush me. You told me that I could never tell, because if I did, people would certainly judge me so harshly that I couldn't possibly endure it. For some reason, I believed you. 

I've always believed you. Even when you attack me, I don't doubt what you tell me. I let you take over my mind until there's nothing left, and I'm reduced to a sobbing, trembling mess. Why? I don't know. You're the only one to tell me what's right and wrong anymore, so things usually end up in your favor.

It's Junior year now. You're still here, telling me what I can and can't type. You're telling me never to show this to anyone. But, Anxiety? I'm tired of listening to you. I may not be able to get rid of you, but whenever I have an opportunity to oppose you, you can bet that I'm going to take it.