Coiling Anxiety

“Open your books and write five things you are grateful for. If you do this every day, you will notice a change within yourself as you begin to notice the positives in your life.”
Mrs Rosalind, their teacher, instructed the students in the cramped classroom to open their books; some books were brand new and shiny, some old yet glittering with stickers, and one was tattered and frail.
The task was as straightforward as breathing. Write five things I’m grateful for. As I watch my fellow students pull their books from their bags, flinching at the harsh sound of chairs scraping against the linoleum floor, they begin to put pencil to paper, the scratching noises stifling the calm silence I enjoy. The silence Mrs Rosalind commanded between tasks was safer, and easier to exist in without trepidation, but I would have to resign myself to the scratching.
I open my tattered book, the inner pages holding onto the cover with one staple, and touch my chewed pencil to the page.
I am grateful for…
My mind seeped into blankness and I stared at those words while ravaging my mind for a few well-chosen and precise examples. Examples Mrs Rosalind would find perfect and indicative of an intellectual mind. I wanted her praise more than anything.
I’m grateful for…I’m grateful for…
My chest coils tighter and tighter like a threatened snake, stealing my breath and preventing me from swallowing. I should be able to come up with an example. Just one thing I’m grateful for. My hand shakes as I grip the pencil and my body floods with panic while familiar parental voices rage in my head.
You SHOULD be grateful. I keep a roof over your head and food in your belly and yet you cry. You want more?? Be grateful, you stupid brat.
The deep voice is hoarse from yelling.
Be grateful. When I had you, I was living on the streets. My parents had kicked me out. You haven’t been through what I have. Be grateful your father loves you. Stop making him angry and be grateful. When I was young, my father would hit me with a thick army belt. Be grateful your father only hits you with a thin black one.
The softer, timid voice pleads.
You are so ungrateful.
You are so ungrateful.
The deep and timid voices merged into one disjointed and garbled tone, spiking the adrenaline in my blood and crushing me under the weight of their condemnation.
“Finish your last sentence.” Mrs Rosalind’s voice cuts through the fog of voices in my head and lures me back into the room. “You won’t be forced to share unless you want to, but try to write down one example each day before we begin class,” Mrs Rosalind urges. Ten minutes had passed. How? Once again, time escaped my grasp.
I blink several times and, keeping my head down to hide my face, wipe at the wetness coating my hollow cheeks. When I finally look up, the room ripples as my head sways from left to right – it feels heavy as if I had just woken from a deep sleep.
Dropping my heavy head, I stare at the page, at those four words. My mind swirls with empty air and hostile thoughts, forming a dizzying hurricane. I gently close my book and wrap my arms around my aching chest. Mrs Rosalind continues the lesson, her voice melting away against the constant thumping within my head. The thumping pounds along with my restless heart.
Be grateful… Be grateful… Be grateful… Be grateful…
I don’t want to be grateful. I want to be happy.