My eyes are open ten seconds before I realize what’s happening.

The clock reads 3:24 a.m., and my anxiety is in full swing. I feel like I might vomit. Even though I’m in my own place I’m completely disoriented. When I see Brandon lying next to me, his naked body tangled in my sheets, it focuses my mind on reality. I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth.

Normally my bed would be home base when I’m upset, the place I sit to let the demons pass, but I don’t want to wake Brandon. There would be no way for me to explain why I’m having a panic attack and about to cry, so I head into my bathroom to cry instead. I’m back to hiding who am I. It’s something I do so well I could teach a class on it. It’s a strange thing to walk around with this. . . defect of mine. It’s like you look and sound normal to everyone around you, but inside you harbor these secrets that you worry will chase the people you love away. I’ve had it happen before.

I hear Brandon’s voice from the bed, deep and groggy. He sounds concerned. “Are you alright?”

Dammit! He must have heard me get up. I already know I have to lie to him again, and it makes the tears flow even harder than they already are. The nightmare was the trigger, but once I get going the crying and the anxiety take on a life of their own, and they overtake me like a spiking fever. I take another breath to settle myself long enough to answer without sounding upset. I steady my voice and yell back.

“Fine. Just an upset stomach, I think, go back to sleep okay?”

“Okay, just checking on you,” he says. Even half asleep he’s so good to me. Brandon seems like that kind of man, the one who would jump out of bed and rush me to the hospital, naked, if I told him I needed to go. He’s a born boyfriend, and I wish his concern made me feel good right now, but hearing his voice and having to lie just makes me more nervous.

“Thanks.” I yell, trying to end the conversation. Then I turn on the water so he won’t hear my sobbing, and I pray that he actually goes back to sleep so I don’t have to talk to him any more right now. I decide to text Carla. I have a line to her at all times, no matter if it’s the middle of the night or two in the afternoon. It was a deal we made after I was hospitalized years ago. My parents just did what they always do with me—freaked out and got disappointed. Carla did something different while she was sitting at my hospital bedside. She made me promise that before I ever let things get that bad again, that I’d call her, no matter where I was or what time of day or night. I made that promise because I felt really guilty for scaring everyone, and I need her right now.

Are you there? I text.

I’m here, she writes back within seconds. Are you okay?

How do you answer so fast? I ask.

I keep my phone next to me on vibrate and ring. Always.

I had another nightmare, I tell her. A bad one.

Just breathe, she tells me. Keep breathing deeply.

My problems started long before I was diagnosed, back in my junior year of high school. I was in all advanced placement classes, and ranked seventh overall in my school by the time we came back from spring break that year. I was also a two-sport athlete—lacrosse and field hockey. Needless to say, stress was my real best friend, and pressure my closest acquaintance. I was naturally driven to succeed, but my parents added a layer of pressure that just took me to an eventual breaking point. They’re like that.

My dad is cardio-thoracic surgeon and my mom is an attorney. That should tell you all you need to know about the kind of standard they had for me and my sister. Regular classes weren’t an option, and failure of any kind simply wasn’t acceptable. Carla and I were made to internalize that fact at a young age. My parents were taskmasters when it came to our academics, and by the time getting into college became the focal point of my adolescent life, I was ready to break.

Looking back on it, all the early signs of depression were there, but my family either didn’t know what they were seeing, or were too distracted with their own shit to even notice me starting to fray. It started with the isolation. I never had a huge group of friends, but even the few girls in my little squad started falling by the wayside. Every invitation to a party, or to hang out after school was met with a rejection by me, and it didn’t take too long before I spent afternoons in my room, alone, crying at the prospect of not getting into Harvard or UPenn. That’s also when I learned how to hide my problems from everyone.

If I taught a course on how to be good at depression, my first PowerPoint slide would be titled “How to Hide.” Here’s the problem with honesty—if you tell someone you’re depressed, then they want you to see a doctor. They want you to take medication. They look at you differently than they did before. They think things of you that aren’t necessarily true—that you’re suicidal, that you might harm yourself, that all you want to do is lay in bed and cry. Basically, when you tell people that you’re depressed, you become a caricature of whatever movie reference they have in their head, and your life changes forever. So instead you learn to fake being healthy. I became an Oscar-worthy method actress. I was the teenaged Daniel Day Lewis, only the character I was playing was myself.

Okay, I’m breathing, I tell Carla.

Is it working? Do you need to call me?

No, I say. I don’t want to wake. . . I stop myself. She doesn’t know about Brandon.

Huh? Are you with someone?

Sort of, I tell her. I’ll tell you about it another time.

Do you have your meds in the room? Take one and keep breathing.

Okay. I pop a pill and cup some of the running water into my mouth before swallowing. I hope it doesn’t take too long to kick in. Carla and Abby are my real support system, the ones who can keep me from flying off the handle when I’m like this, but the only person who ever understood me—really understood me—was my Nana, Rose. Rose was Dad’s mom, and she lived with us for years after my grandfather died when I was a little girl. Carla and Abby are great at taking care of me, but Nana was the queen of actually understanding me. There’s an important difference between the two, and if you can find someone who does both you’ve hit the jackpot. I miss Nana every day. I wish my brain hadn’t gone even crazier after I lost her.

I start to feel a little better. I take the spare set of headphones I have in the drawer and plug them into my phone. I open up the mediation app I downloaded. It’s been a real lifesaver. I thought meditation was all bullshit until I met another girl in the hospital who used it and said it really helped her. I don’t do it every day, but whenever I get like this I use their breathing techniques, and it always helps counteract the symptoms of anxiety. I breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth, listening to the comforting voice of the app developer, and I follow the instructions and start doing the breathing exercises that go with today’s session.

Slowly, but surely, I start to feel okay. I text Carla, telling her as much, because I know she’s sitting awake in bed, waiting for a text from me. I’m okay now, thank you.

Good, she writes back. You know I worry about you.

I wish my sister a good night and thank her again, after I apologize about four times. I finally open the bathroom door after making sure that I’m okay and wiping the tears from my eyes. I see Brandon in the same position I left him, probably dreaming sweet dreams of the night we just had. Imagine if he saw me like this.

I worry about you, Lia.

I wish I could stop making people worry about me.