I’ve become an expert at this. I have the split tongue of a bomb-squad negotiator, the discretion and lithe of an escape artist, and the distinct inadequacy of a toddler in college. It takes the skill of three to placate one mind, mine. These are the roles I play in my head to justify the means of my sheer hysteria.. Whatever you do, don’t tell my nerves this. Don’t let on that I’m not equipped to talk myself out of a panic attack, or escape a social dilemma unnoticed and neither worse-for-wear or of better standing than I was before. Don’t tell me I’m less than 9 months away from the end of high school and that I have no idea what comes next.

Because this is how I work my best. I get up, I greet the day with an empty canvas and a shrug of my shoulders as if to say, “Well, alright then.” In allowance of what comes despite or in course of a disorder that allows me to appreciate each subtle nuance in disaster with certainty that each nightmare will come to fruition in due time.

It’s better, I think, if I laugh. If when I hyperventilate in the student parking lot and look up to see the boy who I had the biggest crush on in my sophomore year staring at me with barely concealed disgust--it’s better, I think, if I laugh. I tell myself it’s the biggest joke in the world, that if I ever met a screen writer of one of those sitcoms on USA, they would tell my story in 30 minutes every Thursday evening at 7/8 central to American families laughing it up in their living rooms while they pay their electric bill.

Because the fact is, fear is hilarious. There’s never been better fodder for jokes than an inhaler-toting, world-is-ending, seventeen-year-old drama queen. And while I sit in class, mulling over admission essays and test grades I put on a face of all seriousness, but in the forefront of my mind I am laughing at everything, at everyone, at grades, at dress code, at cliques, and clubs, and dances, and those two disgusting kids who ALWAYS make out under the staircase in the 800 building. I am laughing at everyone and at myself for being worried and painstakingly awkward with it all.

I laugh when I talk myself down from a panic that has me so stiffly aggrieved, you could whack me against the back with a wooden plank and it would bounce right off. I say petty things like “Its okay.” “you’ve done this every day for how many years?” “you’ll get by alright.” “just breathe.” If you ever see my lips moving, I am playing the number game. The game where I stare at the clock and tell myself “five more minutes, and then I can leave.” On bad days I will do this for a full two-hour class, fully believing myself each time I promise I will let myself go.

I don’t know if it is like this for everyone, but I do know that everyone feels as if their suffering in high school is magnified by their UNIQUE teen angst. (I laugh at this too) You have to build endurance in life. You have to adjust to new perceptions, like switching pairs of glasses--it takes a while to stop being dizzy, feeling as if things are duplicated and contorted. Things turn pretty clear in the end though, and looking back on these four years--You see many things: growth, mistakes, poor choice of clothing, poor choice of boyfriends, books you should have read, and spark notes you should have invested in.

Most of all, when you look back, you do it with a bemused sort of relief--almost watching from afar as you sputter and sigh exhaustedly over your paint-splattered canvas, pulling away with your hands enriched with colors--a giggling bomb-squad -negotiating- escape- artist -toddler.