I was slightly shocked about how calm and practiced my parents seemed at this type of thing, but I figured that as teachers, witnessing panic attacks and moments of self-doubt where just a part of the job. I was eternally grateful that I had parents that would support me and help me, and I knew in an instant they would never judge me for something like this.

Yet for some reason, I didn’t want to tell them. The struggles of my friends weren’t mine to tell, and they trusted me with that delicate information. Considering they all had some degree of trust issues, I didn’t want to be the one to betray them.

“I don’t know if I can…” I said softly, slightly ashamed.

My mother placed her hand under my chin and raised my head to I could meet her eyes. “This seems like it’s been bothering you for a while, considering the panic attack. I really think you ought to talk to us about it. And if you can’t, that’s okay! You could speak to grandma, or the school counsellor, or—”

“No.” I cut her off. This wasn’t about me, and she needed to know before she went into a panic of her own. “This doesn’t actually have anything to do with me… not really.”

“Oh.” She pulled back her hand, slightly confused. Both my parents had the same reaction, with their eyebrows furrowing together and their lips twitching in the corner. It was almost funny. Almost.

“What does it have to do with?” She asked, something like cautiousness in her voice.

“Uhmm…” I paused, unsure of what direction to take. I could lie my way out of this, and mention I was just annoyed at someone, or I had lots of homework, but I’d already said it didn’t really have anything to do with me, so that wasn’t really an option. Now was the perfect opportunity to tell the truth, but I needed my parents to fully understand the severity of what would happen if they tried to get involved.

I convinced myself that telling them would be for the better. They could give me ideas on how to support my friends, which would benefit everyone in the end. My parents wouldn’t be worried about me, I would feel more confident and comfortable with the correct way to help Chloe, Tommy, and Jack when they were struggling, and that would help with their individual anxieties.

And so I told them. Everything from Jackson’s father and self-harm, Chloe’s disordered eating and constant anxieties that everyone hated her, and Tommy’s sensitive feelings.

I saw the worry in parents eyes, but for some reason they didn’t seem surprised, as if they’d known the whole time.

“Why don’t you come sit on the sofa, and we can discuss this properly?”

“Sure,” I nodded, slightly nervous.

Then my parents explained what they knew.

They started with Chloe. Apparently, her mother – Alison – had come to my parents a few months ago with some concerns regarding her daughter. Alison had noticed the decline in Chloe’s eating habits. She’d always known she didn’t quite eat like normal people, and suspected her daughter was lying about her food intake. It frightened her and she didn’t know what to do. However, Alison also noticed the way I’d picked up on her daughters eating, from being careful about not mentioning food to finding wordless ways to encourage Chloe to eat. For some reason, though, Alison hadn’t brought up her concerns to Chloe, which made me slightly angry.

On the other hand, my parent’s had always known about Tommy. “He’d always been an emotional boy,” mum said sympathetically. “Especially after the passing of his father.” Apparently Tommy’s mother was also grateful for me. They’d all seen the way I managed to comfort him before the emotions got too strong, before he’d retreat from everyone to cry somewhere privately.

Finally, there was Jackson. Mum and dad told me they’d always had their suspicions considering how pale, skinny, and sickly Jack often looked. Even though he wore long sleeved shirts and sweatpants to cover his bruises and cuts, dad said that he and mum had caught glimpses and guessed the abuse and self-harm. I asked why they didn’t do anything, but apparently because they didn’t have any hard proof there wasn’t much they could do.

“That’s a lot for a teenager to deal with,” mum said, looking at me.

“I try to support them,” I told her. “I’ve done research on how to help them, and I know what to do before they spiral. For example, whenever Chloe or Jack—”

“She wasn’t talking about your friends,” dad interrupted.

“W-what do you mean?”

“It’s a lot for you,” he clarified.

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“You just had a panic attack because of how much this is affecting you.”

For some reason, those words made me feel slightly frustrated. My feelings about this didn’t matter; I wasn’t the person going through it. “This isn’t about me,” I said shortly.

“But it’s still affecting you,” mum spoke up. “And I don’t think you’re okay, either.”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

I had a healthy relationship with food, amazingly supportive parents, and knew not to take the words of strangers too personally. All I wanted was to help my friends. And so I told this to my parents.

They just stared blankly at me and shared a look I couldn’t understand.

“Why don’t you explain how you help your friends then?”

I explained how I would ease Jacksons panic attacks without the need to touch him, and the way I would hold Chloe or Tommy’s hand whenever things where particularly tough.

I briefly mentioned the way I can instantly tell if one of them is having a bad day, and I mentioned which topics of conversation I never spoke about in front of them.

I spoke about how I knew not to push them if they didn’t want to talk about something, but how I always let them know I was there if they needed me. Sometimes, they would open up and give me an insight into their brain.

Smiling, I told my parents about how my friends always came to me when they needed comfort, and how it made me feel happy that they trusted me so deeply.

I told my parents almost everything about the past few years of my friendship, everything I’ve researched, and what I suspected my friends had. Sometimes I felt bad for self-diagnosing them, but it definitely made it easier to find ways to help them.

“So I think Chloe has an eating disorder, and maybe OCD? And Tommy definitely has some sort of emotional dysregulation and separation anxiety, and Jackson… well that’s a bit harder. He doesn’t open up often, but I definitely knows he has PTSD. And they all have quite severe anxiety, so I now know to make sure—”

My dad was the first to interrupt. “What about you?”

“Huh?” My heart skipped a beat.

“What do you have?”

“I— nothing. What do you mean?”

“Well… you are very good at understanding your friends, and your mother and I both feel very honoured that you care about your friends so much as to spend so many hours figuring out how to help them. But what about you?”

“Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

“That panic attack wasn’t nothing.”

“Can you stop bringing that up?” I snapped, instantly feeling guilty. Where did that come from? “Sorry,” I muttered. “I just… that was nothing. There was a lot going on in my head, but I’ve told you guys now, so it feels like a weight has been lifted of my shoulders.”

“Okay…” He trailed off, seemingly not convinced. “Do you need us to do anything? For your friends? We probably need to get help for them. Chloe and Tommy should be alright if they talk their parents before things get too much, but Jackson probably needs professional help.” He turned to my mother. “We could call the police, or CPS—?”

“NO!” I interrupted, louder than I intended. I cleared my throat, slightly embarrassed. “No,” I said again, in a much calmer and more sensible tone. “You can’t say anything. My friends trusted me not to tell, and considering how long it’s taken for them to fully trust me, I don’t want to break it. Please don’t say anything.”

My parents looked very sceptical, that same expression on their face: furrowed eyebrows and twitching lips.

Mum let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “If you insist. But I need you to promise something.”

“Yeah…?” I said, unsure.

“If anything gets worse, or you sense the mental health of anyone – including your own – seems to be dropping, you tell us immediately.”

“But—”

“Zoey.” My dad warned.

“Fine.” I looked up. They looked slightly frustrated with me, which was not usual. Still, though, they’d promised not to tell anyone, so I knew I would at least put them out of their misery. “If their mental health gets worse, I’ll tell you.”

“And your mental health?”

“My mental health is fine.”

“Zoey.” This time it was my mum. “I know you think that, but please. If you get more anxious about this, or have another panic attack, you need to let us know.”

“Okay,” I whispered, desperately clawing at my brain for a change of conversation. Luckily, after a curt nod, my mum changed the conversation for me.

“Oh! Look at the clock,” she chirped, as if she hadn’t just had a super serious conversation about super serious things. “It’s seven o’clock. We’ve been chatting for almost two hours – dinner time and then presents?”

I nodded, thankful that the tension – which I hadn’t even noticed until then – seemed to seep away as we talked about much lighter things.