I am the girl you see walking with her head down in the hallway, pushed out of the way and yelled at for not moving fast enough. The girl who sits alone at lunch, picking at her food then gazing at the walls. The one who never speaks because she is too afraid of... Well, everything. I have social anxiety disorder, and have been this way most of my life. I am invisible unless I'm in a corner, hyperventilating and going numb from my arms to my legs. I have panic attacks daily, and of course I get bullied for it. I'm the freak. I'm the emo. I'm the f*****. People telling me to go slit my wrists, asking me why I'm shaking. "Are you scared or something?" Laughing at me, staring at me. I talk to no one except for my family, which we don't talk all that much either. My parents pity me, and the rest of my family either wonders what's wrong with me, or is disgusted by the fact that I don't ever really talk to them. They think that I have something against them, or that I'm just rude or stuck up. Well, I'm not. But that's not exactly what I'm here to confess about. The thing is, I do talk to one person. Well, it's not really a person. I assume that you're probably going to crack up with laughter, but I talk to the posters on my bedroom wall. I talk to them for hours on end, and I tell them everything. I laugh, I smile, I cry, and I just let everything out. I share everything with them. I read them the poetry I write and talk about my dreams and fantasies. I talk about my favorite books and movies, and they make me feel really good about myself. Of course that feeling is only temporary, because I feel completely insane afterwards. It's so strange because I actually really care about my posters and consider them my best friend. They listen to me, and I feel as if they're laughing when I laugh and they're wiping away my tears when I cry. I would've probably killed myself if it weren't for my posters. They mean so much to me. God, I am a f****** psycho.