The Courage of Children: Boston and Beyond XXXIII

JESSA NULSEN
MARY BUDROSE, TEACHER
Proctor Elementary School, Topsfield, MA
Picture this: you’re possibly the most ordinary kid in the universe who has
never had anything truly horrible happen to you. And then, everything
changes, shocking you like a cold, sharp slap to the face. Finding out I had
anxiety was like being hit with a giant metal club. Nevertheless, living with it
was one thousand times worse. Next, imagine this: you have an invisible
puppeteer who hovers over your head and pulls devilish strings to control the
decisions you make and the way you act. All of those decisions are made by how
scared you think you could get, and even feeling scared in the first place is
enough to push you off the brink of your sanity. Well, this happened to me.
The whole story started when my family and I set off on a road trip to Montana
for seven scorching hot days, during what had to be the most ill-fated summer
of my life. It was a long, rather agonizing trip to Montana from Massachusetts,
my home state. That trip was pure scarlet sunburns and ice packs for sweaty
brows. Despite the heat, we found ways to pass the time: movies, hotel pools,
sketching, and most importantly, national parks. Everything was as standard
and typical as it always was. My family and I were at the Theodore Roosevelt
National Park on a scenic boardwalk, and they were behaving the same as
usual. Of course, my brother was taking it all in, soaking up all the information
he could; my dad was chattering nonstop about what a beautiful place we were
in; and my mom was sharing a knowing look with me. Our day was like a
beautiful china plate, with intricate designs painted on its sides and bright
colors woven into each picture. The grin on my face was as firm as permanent
ink. And then, everything shattered. I felt my belly curdle, and my insides
turned upside down. The next thing I knew, I was being hoisted up onto my
dad’s shoulders, and we were sprinting like track stars back to our hotel. Even
though I was mortified, I tried my best to ignore the stares from passersby. The
white spots dancing across my vision weren’t as bad as the tears blurring my
eyesight and streaming down my cheeks. At last, I topped off my wonderful day
by spending the rest of the night lying on my hotel’s bathroom floor, gagging.
This shocking experience triggered my anxiety.
During the rest of the trip, I stayed alert and hung back from the crowd, staying
away from anything that made me feel uneasy. I missed out on wonderful
hiking trips and national park outings. During the whole trip, I was worried
about being kidnapped, getting hurt, or getting sick again. I ruined the trip for
myself. At random times, I would get strange bursts of sudden emotion. I could
“AFTER ALL THESE
YEARS, I AM IN
CONTROL OF MY OWN
LIFE. THE INVISIBLE
STRINGS ARE GONE,
AND I’M FINALLY
MYSELF AGAIN.”
explode at any moment, whether it was over burnt toast at a continental
breakfast or bugs hitting the window while our car sped down the highway. My
mind was like a blur of pure chaos. Every day, my fists were clenched. I could
burst into tears, I could scream at the top of my lungs if I felt like it; my anxiety
made it harder for me to use reasonable emotions instead of being destructive.
After the excursion, things only got worse. I avoided being in situations alone
without my parents or my brother. Then, I started losing passion for the things
I used to love, because I was too scared to do them. I would be shaking in the
back seat on my way to a soccer game; I would be miserable most days at
school. My anxiety was molding me into an unstable, sobbing mess. Soon, I
started to resent myself for being so hard to control. I felt like a coward. It was
almost like I couldn’t do anything on my own without getting a strange feeling
that something drastic was going to happen. It was like I was witnessing my
own funeral. My life used to feel like a fairytale, and now it was like an
inferno—a dystopia. I avoided talking to people at my school because I felt like
I might say something wrong and they might laugh at me. My parents knew
something was wrong, and they decided to take me to a therapist. I hated the
idea at first, picturing sitting in a hot, stuffy room with white walls and talking
to a stranger about my feelings. In fact, what if she already hated me as much
as I hated her?
However, in real life, she was a magnanimous person I could easily relate to.
She showed me that my fears weren’t real, and that I was only making things
harder for myself. On top of that, she taught me some anxiety methods to use
during more difficult situations. I didn’t use them, though. The techniques
were supposed to be a magical antidote for my anxiety. Poof! and they would
be gone, just like that. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. I liked my therapist, but
I still didn’t trust her completely. Somehow, I still thought of the methods
THE COURAGE OF CHILDREN: BOSTON AND BEYOND
VOLUME XXXIII
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