My “Mean Girl”
She’s a “mean girl,” a bully. She’s vicious and unrelenting, like a python that thrives on watching its victims snap and crack in its lethal grip. For so long, I’ve been under her rule, listening to her, obeying her, and believing everything she says. I can’t look in the mirror without hearing her mockery or speak without being silenced by her ridicule. She always held so much power over me, and me only. Nobody else hears her whispers and lies; her contemptuous voice only echoes in my head, no one else’s: It’s because only you are this detestable and deserving of abuse, she tells me, your abhorrence disgusts everyone around you. Look at them: they despise you. Her words stick with me, and I only ever see how much I’m loathed. Their smiles are fake, and their kind words are meaningless. My empty stomach yearns for assurance, yet I’m doomed to starve because she says such affirmations are lies. I hear her voice every waking minute, despite how much I want her gone. She is my “mean girl”: my anxiety.
I used to believe that I was my anxiety, that I was responsible for thinking these demeaning, unspeakable things. How could you say such mean things to yourself? You’re a cruel person, I would hear, berating my berating. But unfortunately, this was all I’d known from a very young age. At five, I thought my dad was never home because I wasn’t good enough; in reality, he worked overtime to support us. At seven, I believed that I had no friends because I was simply unlikable; in reality, it was day one in a foreign country. At ten, I swore that my parents' divorce was somehow my fault; in reality, that couldn’t be further from true. My anxiety was something I believed without question. I always knew something was off about how I felt, but I just brushed it off. I told myself that, if anything, I was just being dramatic. Only, I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t the one putting these words into my head; it was her.
Finally, when I was 14, I realized something was seriously wrong. So I started meeting with a psychiatrist, whom I was never really fond of. She had an unnerving demeanor and cold eyes that offered little compassion. After every question, she would scratch words into her notebook while sporting a permanent scowl, which only fueled my anxiety: She’s probably writing about how crazy you are, I would hear, or maybe she thinks you’re lying. Probably. You’re just being dramatic after all. After a few sessions, filled with sharing, overanalyzing, and vulnerability hangovers, she eventually came to a conclusion:
“Sounds like Generalized Anxiety Disorder,” she concluded in a monotone voice as if I knew what that meant. Sensing my confusion, she continued, “It’s like there’s a bully on your shoulder, constantly planting paranoia and insecurity in your head.”
My psychiatrist then explained that blaming myself for my anxiety only gave it more power, so she suggested I differentiate it by giving it a name. At first, I thought this was absurd. I considered self-degradation to be part of my identity, so naming it felt childish. However, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. By separating myself from this enervating, debilitating disorder, I could go about my life with more clarity and confidence. I could rationalize and criticize anxious thoughts without scolding myself for thinking them. This moment of revelation offered immense clarity and validation; it affirmed that my experiences were real, and I wasn’t just being dramatic. It set me free from the demeaning, insecure thoughts that I had been enslaved to. By labeling the bully on my shoulder, I could finally reclaim my mind. So, I needed to find a name. Fortunately, I had the perfect one: Regina George, the ultimate mean girl.
-Hannah, a senior in high school
