Ten minutes left in class, and it felt like the room was caving in, and every fiber of my body was disintegrating into thin air. I kept scratching my sweaty palms, hoping that the clock would move at a rapid pace and I can get out of this class without the professor knowing that I didn’t complete last night’s homework. She’s supposed to ask each person to recite one fact from the textbook we were supposed to read. I had every intention of reading it, but the Knicks-Lakers game last night was too riveting. Knowing this moment would come, my anxious self spent all morning figuring out ways I could finesse my way out of this situation. One option was to go to the nurse and fake a stomach ache. Another option was to go to the bathroom and poop, but each time my anxiety won out and the worst case scenario always came to mind. The professor was going to accompany me to the nurse’s office and ask me the question there, or even worse, stand outside the stool as I fake poop and ask me the question, and find out I’m a fraud and fail me from the class, thus ruining my life. Irrational and extreme, I know, but that’s what anxiety does to you. So as my knee continued to tap, and I took deep breaths, MS. Daniels finally called on me. “David, what did you learn from the “Great Depression in 1929” not knowing what to say? I gulped and was prepared to just say umm to maybe either one of my classmates helped me out or a meteor struck the classroom. I don’t remember saying my prayers the night before, but perhaps I did in my sleep because it was at that moment a loud ding went off, and the fire alarm rang to bless me. As the teacher encouraged everybody to leave their stuff and exit the classroom, I smiled, knowing that class would be over by the time we had to go back in, and I didn’t have to answer the question today. To say I was relieved or happy would be a significant understatement.

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