I'm never going to NOT have anxiety - and that's okay.

I remember being awake for hours in bed at night when I was just six years old. Intrusive thoughts running through my mind, begging me to replay each possible tragedy it could comprehend happening in my life.

I recall vividly the circumstances I would imagine scenarios, tears running down my face in a stream, soaking large areas of my pillow so much that I would need to flip it over. I would imagine things like car crashes, my parents dying while I was at school, or my dog being hung by her neck when I arrived home one normal day.

It would be obvious, to an outside spectator, that there was something wrong in my life for me to feel that way. A psychologist may ponder if I had been traumatised or abused. Little would they know, my life was fantastic, fulfilling, wholesome.

My Mother loved me, I was daddies’ little girl, and I had an older Brother that would always look out for me. We would wrestle, play with our toys, go to the park together.

We lived in a small town in New South Wales called Budgewoi, where we often received visitors from each side of the family. We had the only pool on our street, which made me a popular kid. I had blue eyes and blonde hair, a button nose and normal stature. I had two best friends and made new friends easily. My life was filled with love and support.

Alas, nightfall came, and my eyes would water as the thoughts came flooding into my little brain. Before long, they would leak into my daily life as I imagined our 91’ Pajero being crushed into the cement barrier of a bridge by a large truck I saw going by.

I inhaled sharply and held back my tears as I imaged being the only survivor, seeing in my mind a clear vision of my family dead, soaked in blood. Or would just my dad die? My Mum would clutch her chest and scream, shaking his dead corpse, attempting to wake him.

My Mum would sometimes catch a look on my face, as I held my breath or balled my fists while staring out the car window, seeing the horror show running internally.

She would say, "are you okay?"

And I would say "yep".

I knew the things I thought about daily would scare her. As far as she knew I was a happy and healthy young girl. When she saw me daydreaming, she rationalised that I thought about fairies and Disney princesses. I was perfect to her.

Later, it was more obvious to my Mum how I struggled with my mental state. The insomnia became harder to hide when I was expected to wake to my own alarm in high school. I couldn’t get my exhausted body to rise from the sheets just to face a full day of school. Sometimes I was so exhausted I would start getting headaches. I gripped onto the small niggle of pain to utilise them as an excuse for sick day.

The intrusive thoughts became full HD adult rated plays as my brain developed. At sixteen I wasn't able to hide behind following my parents schedule with day-to-day activities anymore. Life's hurdles were down to me, and boy, did I fall down a lot.

With my first job at a restaurant, regardless of the fact I loved my job and the people I worked with, there were quite a few occasions I couldn't bring myself to leave the house for my shift. I couldn't even bring myself to call in sick. Then I would deal with the burning fear of facing the consequences, which I managed to avoid a lot in that job, thanks to my carefree manager.

Throughout each job I had the same issue. I felt that if I did push myself to go, something bad would happen. Would I be hit by a car? Would a rapist snatch me? Would a psycho just begin to beat me up, kick my teeth in, drag me along the street in front of bystanders that are too scared to help me while I scream on the road? I could hear the blood curdling scream that would escape me. I could feel the shame and fear that I would endure. I felt a sting in my heart when I imagined feeling where he had been hitting me, and realising he had knocked my front teeth out. I would be toothless at school with a swollen face and broken bones. Peers would stare and question me, while I was too polite to ignore them, I would suffer trying to explain what had happened with crying from the trauma.

Maybe I would just imagine arriving at work, and a customer is really mean to me, calls me fat in front of all of my work mates (which had never happened to anyone, ever). But the thoughts, they intruded constantly and realistically. It felt like I was opening alternate dimensions where these things really did happen to me.

Whenever I did share some of these thoughts, it would seem so irrational to others, as well as completely unnecessary to them. They would say 'why would you think that?'

and I would just say, 'I don't know', when really I wanted to say 'how DON'T you think about it?!'.

Throughout each job, and sick day, I could see my Mum wondering if I was lazy, if I was unmotivated, if I really had no care or empathy for the people at my work who had to cover my shifts.

To be honest, I would think the same things.

The truth was, I felt horrible every time. But it felt less horrible to be safe in my room, away from all of the looming possibilities.

It felt better to be as sincere as possible while I disappointed people constantly, rather than feel like I would die if I opened that front door and entered the chaotic world. I became tied to friends that would dictate our every activity, whether I wanted to go or not, at least it wouldn't be my fault if we both died in a bus crash on the way.

As I grew older, I did try different medications and counselling.

But do you know what really gives me anxiety? Not having anxiety!

I bet that’s confusing, but here’s the evidence: Every time I thought something bad might happen, and I pushed myself through, there was always somehow, at some point, a moment where I realised, I was right. One of these brave days, where I pushed through my negative thoughts and went to work as a cashier at a local retail store, a woman yelled at me in front of everyone over scanning something twice by accident. The manager told me later how she had never seen a customer behave that badly about a mistake.

To make it worse, one of the rich kids from school, who hadn’t needed a job because their parents thought they should ‘just focus on school’, saw the whole ordeal while shopping nearby.

My cheeks were ruby red, my eyes were filled to the brim ready to explode, and my jaw clenched tightly for the rest of my long shift.

It followed me on my walk home, while I made dinner, and throughout the four hours I tossed and turned in bed trying to sleep.

Another time, I really didn't want to catch a bus alone to my best friend’s house but I pushed myself to go anyhow. On the way, two men followed me down the street in a dirty old commodore, asking me if I wanted a lift persistently. Every Law in Order SVU episode drilling into my head as I ran away. Again, that situation joined the queue of things that would haunt me.

Maybe the thoughts of being grabbed and raped WERE real threats in my real life.

To be fair, nobody really knows for sure, right?

So yes, I have terrible anxiety, I can't sleep well sometimes, and I don't want to change.

Inside my anxiety, I am safe.