Imagine sitting on trial for a murder you didn't commit. Imagine the people in the courtroom – all watching you, waiting for you mess up, to give some indication of your guilt. The jury foreman stands up. He has the verdict in his hands. In the next thirty seconds, you will learn if you are on death row for the rest of your life with no chance of parole or if you walk away free. Imagine your feelings – the anxiety, the worry, the adrenaline. Even a little bit of guilt – not for the murder itself, but for putting yourself in a position where this trial could happen. You've hurt your family, your friends, the people who counted on you. In your mind's eye, you see yourself in 5 – 10 years, living a miserable life, waiting for your death. For a murder you never committed. The panic, the terror, the fear that nothing good will ever happen to you again. The sensation of drowning as you painfully watch the foreman open the paper that decides your fate.

Now imagine feeling that every time you turn on the stove. Or go outside in a storm. Or walk out of a testing room. That's Generalized Anxiety Disorder. And for people with an anxiety disorder, you will always get the chair.

People think that having an anxiety disorder just means you over-think things, or you “worry too much.” But it's not. It's a mental illness that will slowly start to chip away at who you are – your sleeping patterns are destroyed, your friendships are minimized, and your ability to be even a little bit reckless – well, forget that. You cry a lot with an anxiety disorder, too. There's so much guilt involved. The guilt is almost worse than the anxiety itself. You feel bad, genuinely sorry, for screwing up – even if you haven't even done it yet.

There are three levels to an anxiety disorder. First comes the actual anxiety about a thing. Whatever “the thing” is, it's created anxiety for you. Then comes the worry, which is different than anxiety, because while anxiety is about “the thing” itself, the worry is about you failing at “the thing.” Keep in mind that “the thing” could be squashing a bug. The third level is the guilt. Now you feel guilty for failing at “the thing” in your head – how could you ever do it in real life? So you sit there, paralyzed, as you watch the stupid bug scuttle away without you ever dealing with the problem. And now you've failed in real life, too.

Anxiety disorders makes even simple things hard. Introducing yourself to new people is awful, because what if they don't like you? What if you mess up? Turning on a stove is a nightmare, because what if your clothes catch on fire? What if you leave the gas on too long and the whole room goes up? Being a self-starter – auditioning for things, sending out resumes, entering contests – well, forget that. What if your stuff sucks? What if you never win anything and you finally know, without a doubt, that you are worthless? And what if, worst of all, you waste their time? What if they look at your entry, and they think, Why would she even bother to send it in?

To normal people, this sounds ridiculous. Most people love to grab up every opportunity they can get, to put themselves out there, to constantly improve. And if they don't get it, then they'll try it again with someone else. But it's not like that for a person with an anxiety disorder. Every rejection, every failure, is just a reaffirmation of how useless they are. We can't put ourselves out there because it makes us so uncomfortable we want to cry. Change is hard. Change is scary. What if it doesn't work? What if the change proves that I'm useless?

The worst thing to say to someone with an anxiety disorder is something I've thought long and hard about – the truth is, there's three really bad, awful things that you can say to someone with an anxiety disorder. The first one is, “Don't worry so much.” If I could not worry, I wouldn't. It is a physical addiction – it's almost like being addicted to cocaine, but with all of the bad side effects and none of the good ones. The second one is, “That doesn't even make any sense.” If my fears about everything made sense, it wouldn't be considered a mental illness. I physically know that the chances of getting struck by lightning are astronomically small, but will that stop me from worrying about getting struck by lightning every single time I leave the house when it's raining? No, it will not. That's why it's a disorder. The third, and the worst thing to say is, “I understand.” Because the truth is you don't understand. Unless you also have an anxiety disorder, you have no idea what it's like to worry about everything. It's not a phobia. It's not a physical problem, like a broken arm or a torn muscle. It's worrying about everything – for example, I have never been sexually active in my life. But do I worry about getting an STD? Every single day, without fail. You will never understand how much it hurts to have an anxiety disorder. Imagine the worst, most nerve-racking, most guilt-filled moment of your life – now imagine feeling it every moment of every day for years and years. It plagues your sleep, it ruins your habits, and it makes you sick and exhausted from the huge adrenaline and stress strain.

Physical sickness is one of the worst things to deal with as a person with an anxiety disorder. The fear of being seriously physically sick paralyzes me in a way few things can. If I realized one day I was showing all the symptoms for breast cancer or another disease, I don't know if I would ever be able to tell anyone. It's Schrodinger's Cat – as long as I don't get it confirmed, I both have it and don't have it, and that means there's an equal chance that I don't. A few months ago, I found a mark on my arm. My first thought was 'skin cancer.' I showed my mother and she said, “Nah, it's probably a bug bite. Don't worry about it.” But I did. I worried constantly. Every time I saw it, I honestly wondered if I was dying. And I eventually showed the doctor, and you know what it was? Ringworm. It was gone in a few weeks.

I will say this, though – the worst part about having a mental illness? Not just an anxiety disorder, but any mental illness? It doesn't show. There are no marks. You don't get a wheelchair or a cast everyone can sign for having paranoid schizophrenia. Your classmates, co-workers, family, and friends aren't reminded of your mental illness every time you walk into your room. You can tell them time and time again, “I have an anxiety disorder,” but they will still treat you the same way in a high-pressure, stress-filled situation. Asking a person with depression to “cheer up and have a good time for once” is like telling someone with a broken arm to go throw a football.

Before I end this, I'd like to say a few things. I wish I didn't have this. I wish I could go do stupid, reckless things like any other teenager. I wish I could put myself out there for the world to see without hating myself for doing it. I wish my confidence wasn't so easily shaken. And I'm sorry. I am so sorry that my anxiety disorder has ruined so many relationships – not only the ones I had, but the ones I never got the chance to try out. But I will also say this – what I have is a serious problem. It's not something that we made up as an excuse. It's a mental disorder, and it's as powerful and important as a physical disorder. I will not be treated like I am second-class because my illness doesn't come with lumps and bruises.

You think mental disorders aren't dangerous? Check the suicide rate. Or the homicide rate, if you're in a really gruesome mood. There are so many resources out there for people with physical disorders – not enough, but compared to resources for people with psychological disorders? You think Sandy Hook couldn't have been prevented? The truth is, most school shootings could be. Our physically ill might be ostracized, but compared to our mentally ill, they're practically exalted. There are so many people out there, all around you, who have problems that they don't know what to do about. And they feel guilty for those problems. They blame themselves for their disorders because that is what society has taught them to do. And they don't deserve that. They deserve much, much better. They are people. I am a human being, and the fact that I have tornado, earthquake, and hurricane escape plans written on flashcards when I live in New York doesn't make me any less so. And so, I leave you with that in mind.

Imagine being on a roller coaster – in that moment that so many people love, where you stop being scared and you feel that first moment of pure adrenaline. That moment where you're really flying. Only this time, you're falling. The tracks, the safety bars, the cars – they're gone. It's just you, falling through space, with nothing to catch you. That's an anxiety disorder.