In a previous blog about social anxiety, I talked about how it's difficult for me to make friends and socialize, and that I felt I was never missing out on anything since I enjoyed being alone.

That is far from the truth.

February 2020 changed everything for me. I suffered an anxiety attack, but it wasn't like any other. I found myself unconsciously chewing my tongue and cheek till they were raw and bleeding.

All that damage I was causing to myself, and I was still focused on the thoughts that were spiraling out of control.

The end result was a month and a half of torment. I was unable to speak, eat, or even laugh without causing pain and ripping the healing wounds in my mouth.

For 5 long weeks, I lived off jello, applesauce, and room temperature soup (just liquid, no bits). Even these soft meals caused my wounds to open, leaving a metallic-y blood taste every single time.

I thought I could tolerate it, but I started fainting in my apartment randomly, and I was unable to stay a full shift at work, so with the last remaining energy I had, I drove to my parents 20 minutes away, knocked on the door, and passed out on the doorsteps.

I didn't want to resort to living with my parents during that moment, but I knew if I stayed living on my own, I wouldn't be able to fully recover, so I put my ego aside, and let my parents try their best to help.

I hated people looking at me with pity. During that period, I lost 40 pounds, and looked like I was clinging to life.

I couldn't work.

I couldn't eat.

I couldn't talk to anyone without resorting to texting the person who was literally across from me to have a discussion.

I cried in the shower, hoping that no one could hear that I was at my breaking point. And when I got out, I tried my best to smile, knowing it would cause a rip inside, but hoping they would assume I'm doing better.

I accepted my fate at one point. I started learning sign language, in case that was the only way I could communicate with anyone, and in efforts to gain back energy, I started boxing.

It took a while to recover, but the day I felt it was all healed and got the clear from the doctors, I tried talking. I had an accent, and it made me cry and smile, and I kid you not I spent $100 on multiple fast food places since I craved and missed the taste of food.

As I type this out, I'm shedding tears. It's a vivid memory, but it shows me how much I took talking for granted. As much as I hate that period of my life, I hold it tight across my chest, because it's help me understand that I have a voice, and I want to share my thoughts with the world.