When my anxiety first started, I didn’t think it was bad enough to tell anyone. I’m the type of person who feels like a burden if I need help with something. I hate asking for help. It’s, most likely, because of my constant guilt. My grandmother knew I had some worry, but I never told her how bad it really was. Support was the last thing I needed.
Or so I thought.
Fast forward to when it became worse, I didn’t have to tell anyone, because they knew. They could see my suffering. By then, I couldn’t even deny it. I was hurting physically and mentally. I wanted to be alone, because I felt lonely. Dillon knew, too. Bless his heart, he had no idea how to go about comforting me, at first. He did try, but it was going to take a lot of practice for him to…
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