I have had a man about ten years my senior come to my house looking for my mom because he wanted to ask her if she wanted to go “party” with him. I explained to him that she was at work, and then he asked me.

I have been frightened by a man we once thought as our friend when he somehow found out where our new house was, over a year after we’d last talked to him. In two separate instances, he waited by our driveway until we got home and, we’re almost 100 percent sure, watched us from a distance with binoculars.

I have had a handful of dreams about random men coming to our new house when I’m home alone and they try to “get” me. Usually I answered the door, which seems dumb if I didn’t know who it was but normal people should be able to freely answer their own doors without fear, except one time I hid and they got inside because I’d left the door unlocked. In each dream, I ended up having to stab them repeatedly with the big kitchen knife to save myself, and then I’d wake up.

I have also read Helter Skelter, a horrifying book describing the 1969 murders of seven people, which were all carried out in disgusting ways and masterminded by Charles Manson. Reading that was an overall bad idea, in retrospect, as I couldn’t get any of it out of my head and ended up having a nightmare about The Family.
These situations, real or not, left me petrified with fear every time I was home with my younger sister or just myself, when our mom was at work. I would keep only one light on in the house after it got dark so it was less obvious that someone was home, lock the deadbolt, and I always knew where that big kitchen knife was. If I took a shower while I was home alone, I was paranoid that someone would enter the house and I wouldn’t hear it. Then I would come out of the bathroom and a man would be there waiting for me. Not to mention the fact that Charles Manson could fit into the cupboard under the bathroom sink, like when he hid in a small cupboard to avoid being arrested by the police.

But I am brave, damnit.

It doesn’t work to tell myself to just forget about all that stuff, or to not have anxiety about everything plus a few more things. Trust me, I’ve tried it like a bazillion times. I can’t just try to be what I call brave and poof it’ll happen. I have to not think about not thinking about fear and anxiety, which is impossible. In the darkest of these days, I found a coping strategy. It was quite a stretch, but it was something when I had nothing at all.
Over the winter, everyone was cooped up inside, and I felt bad about my body image because I couldn’t get out. I started doing yoga, like my mom does in the winter, even though I thought I wasn’t good at it. I did some Rodney Yee ones on the television then wanted something more difficult, so I tried one of several Shiva Rae audios. At the end of the practice, Shiva had me do a shavasana, where you lay on your back, relaxing and becoming one with the Earth. She read a short poem, before the spiritual chanting took over, that went like this:
“As a bee seeks nectar from all kinds of flowers/Seek teachings everywhere/Like a deer that finds a quiet place to graze/Seek seclusion to digest all that you have gathered/Like a mad one/Beyond all limits/Go where you please and live like a lion/Completely free of all fear.”

I really took that poem to heart, and I liked it so much I shortened my shavasana to write it down.
The last two lines, “Live like a lion/Completely free of all fear,” were what I whispered to myself when I thought of Charles Manson, or I woke in the dark fresh from Nightmareland, or I sat on the couch staring at my reflection in the black window. Even when I had anxiety in the school parking lot when my little car was surrounded by brainless teenage boys in big trucks and I couldn’t safely get out. A fearless lion was what I was, or a lioness, rather, as men had caused all these fears.

A lioness. Someday, I thought, she would emerge and I would finally, finally be brave.

That is something in which the time of occurrence is impossible to pinpoint.

My never-ending anxiety had always influenced how and if I did things, but one day, shortly before spring began, I realized that my anxiety was gone. I didn’t really think much of its disappearance, mostly because I didn’t want to jinx it and have it return. But the feeling that I had, the absence of anxiety, lasted. I could think of things that usually gave me anxiety and they would have no effect. Later, I forgot what those things were.
My anxiety was gone, and I wasn’t even using avoidance techniques.

The whole experience was absolutely exhilarating.
Being anxiety-free didn’t mean that everything was happy-skippy-fine-and-dandy. A few things, at home and at school, still rotted and made me feel down. But I didn’t dwell on them. The bad things would not consume me, as my fears once did.

Now I can focus on things I like without obstacles, such as my family, books, writing, and our animals, especially our adorable baby lambs. At school I can socialize almost normally now, free of anxiety, and I spend my time hanging out with a funny group of freshmen though I am a junior, trying to pass precalculus, and liking a boy who I can actually talk to. I can even look back on the bad things without relapsing, without feeling anything but strength.
I am brave, now I know for sure.