Amanda Stern

Since I was a child, I've been held captive by this nameless, invisible dread.

The feeling was so all-encompassing, it made routine things like coming and going feel like I was putting my life in danger.

It convinced me that if I wasn't watching her, my mom would die or disappear.

I felt responsible for her safety,

And this made leaving her every single morning to go to school feel unbearable, and leaving her to go to my dad's every other weekend feel like I was walking towards my own kidnapping.

The only way that I could alleviate my apprehension, calm myself down, and find relief was just to avoid the hard thing and stay at home with my mom where I knew I would be safe.

Nobody knew what was wrong with me.

They called it homesickness, this feeling of mine, but I knew that couldn't be right because I felt it even when I was home.

All I knew was that I felt defective and broken, and I secretly worried that I was crazy.

I didn't anticipate that the dread would grow as I grew and that I would bring it with me from childhood into adulthood.

But that's exactly what happened.

The year is 1995.

I'm 25 years old.

I live in a small apartment with a shower in the kitchen.

Alanis Morissette is my generation's current soundtrack.

I haven't left the apartment in three weeks.

I don't have a job, so that's not a problem.

I don't leave the house to see friends or go to bars or do anything a 25-year-old should do.

When I get hungry, I order in, but I don't get hungry because I'm thinking of killing myself.

You see,