My name is Claire Bennett, and for most of my life, my family treated me like a flaw they needed to keep out of sight. I struggled with severe social anxiety and panic disorder—the kind that made my throat tighten in checkout lines and my hands shake so badly I couldn’t even hold a glass. My mother, Diane, called it my “performance issue.” My father, Robert, called it weakness. My younger sister, Emily, quickly learned that the easiest way to stay loved in our house was to echo whatever they believed.
By the time Emily got engaged, I was barely functioning. I worked remotely from my bedroom, paid rent to my parents, and was told to stay upstairs whenever guests came over. If church friends asked about me, my mother would say I was “going through something embarrassing.” Once, after I had a panic attack in a restaurant and knocked over a glass, my father grabbed my arm so hard it left bruises.
