I pull the blanket over my head and let out a heavy sigh. I’m not emotionally ready to return to a blank page, but the feedback from my parents and sister was unanimous: The essay was “inauthentic.” The frustrating part is that none of them know me well enough to judge when I’m being authentic and when I’m not. That said, I did write a sob story about the death of my grandma six years ago, and we were never that close. Neda described it as “sweet” but mumbled that the majority of college essays are about dead grandparents.

My dad wants me to write about life during a pandemic, but as long as I don’t get sick (knock on wood), then what would I have to say about it except that being stuck in the house with my family has been mind-numbingly boring but also surprisingly nice? Also, I have a slight inkling that this might be the year that global pandemic essays surpass ones about dead grams and gramps.

I pull the blanket down and face Neda. “Okay… lay it on me. What’s my brilliant college essay topic?”

“I think you should write about how you’re, like, neurotic about everything.”

“I’m not neurotic about everything.”

“Yes, you are! You always have been! I was telling Gideon about all your peculiar quirks, and he said it sounds like you have some form of anxiety disorder.”

It would be so easy to grab a pillow and smother my sister to death right now, but I’m not sure it would be worth spending the rest of my life in prison. How the hell did I miss this particular FaceTime conversation between her and Gideon?

“I’m sorry, but are you and your boyfriend diagnosing me?”

“Don’t be mad. There is no shame in struggling with a mental illness,” she replies matter-of-factly.

“I’m not mentally ill!”

I don’t mean for my response to come out so loud and defensive, but I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a mental illness. I prefer “overactive imagination.” Plus, why should being afraid of impending death all the time mean you’re mentally ill? I think people who don’t worry about dying are the ones who need help. Talk about being in the throes of denial.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Parisa. And writing about it will help remove the stigma. Gideon has an anxiety disorder, too.”

“He does?” It’s hard for me process the idea of someone so confident and handsome being anxious about anything.

“Yes. He gets, like, actual panic attacks. I had to get him through one that came on in the middle of the night. He woke up in a cold sweat. It was really awful.”

I manage a nod, but the idea of my sister in bed next to Gideon might give me a panic attack.