So when the rising tide of your anxiety swells into a frenzied surge of naked panic and your heart threatens to flat-line and your breath makes you feel like a gaping fish floundering for oxygen and the nausea is like looking over the edge of a cliff and stumbling and your tears blur your vision until it seems frankly a matter of physical safety to just get back in bed and give in, all it means is that you can’t tell your mother because this never happens to her, and you can’t tell your father because he never learned to comfort a daughter without using material gifts, and you can’t tell your older sister because it would mean you were losing the game neither of you speak of, and you can’t tell your little sister because you’re terrified she’ll see her future in your broken heart and depressive mind, and then you would know for sure that she shaped herself in your image just like you carved yourself a soul with the sharp blade of your mother’s disappointment and the smooth marble of your sister’s triumphs.