An uplifting, feel-good novel

No one’s ever told Mel that she didn’t have to be perfect.

Meet Mel: She’s a dedicated workaholic and chronic people-pleaser who spends her weekends drowning her loneliness in alcohol. A meticulous planner, Mel’s world takes a turn when a panic attack forces her to reassess the pursuit of flawlessness.

Seeking refuge, she escapes to the Azores, reconnecting with her estranged aunt and collaborating with photographer Carlos to capture the island’s breathtaking beauty, all while waiting for her elusive boyfriend. Yet, even in this picturesque escape, her inner struggles persist, leading her back to familiar vices.

Amid the backdrop of unfulfilled relationships and crippling anxiety, a meaningful bond blossoms between Mel and Carlos. He becomes the dependable friend, her unwavering rock. As their connection deepens, Mel faces a pivotal choice that can change her life forever. Torn between two paths, she must choose what she truly wants.

Join Mel on this heartfelt journey as she navigates the challenges of anxiety, seeking liberation from society’s expectations. Witness her discovery of inner strength, empowering her to rewrite her own story.

Funny and moving, sweet and inspiring, “Anxious Girl” is a poignant narrative that explores the layers of anxiety, revealing the courage needed to seek help and the resilience to forge a new path.

PRAISE

READ AN EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Why am I in such a hurry? And why is everyone else in such a rush too? I stop and take a look around. It’s April 2014, just another Friday afternoon in a big city supermarket, but it feels like a war zone (or a Black Friday). Lisbon might be the biggest Portuguese city, but with just over half a million people, it’s more like a cozy town compared to the hustle of London or the craziness of Tokyo (which I totally hated, by the way). I love Lisbon, but lately, I feel like my city is suffocating me.

I’m lost in my thoughts, when a woman in her forties, with platinum blonde hair and a tight red dress that hugs all her curves, almost bulldozes me. Nothing can stand between her and a Dove deodorant. I could get annoyed at the look she gives me, but I decide to show some empathy. Running out of deodorant is a big deal, especially if you’ve got a date. And dressed like that, I bet she’s off on a hot date with some guy she met on the internet, who’ll either turn out to be a jerk or, after almost a year of dating, still won’t commit.

So, why am I at El Corte Inglés supermarket during the busiest time of the week? I shift my gaze from the faux blonde and head to the feminine hygiene aisle. Scanning the shelves, I finally spot what I need: a box of Tampax. It’s a crucial purchase, but it’s not my most pressing need right now. Even though I’m on my period and desperately need tampons (because I’m using the last one stashed in my office drawer), there’s something else I need even more.

I make my way to the back of the supermarket. Turning the corner from the cookie aisle, I bump into a couple having a heated argument about cookies. Yes, you read it right – cookies. He’s all about the decadent Oreos, and she’s into those rice cookies that look like Styrofoam. I sidestep them, not catching the end of their dispute but knowing she’s likely to win – us ladies tend to triumph in life’s small battles. Big battles? That’s a different story.

Picking up the pace, I enter the drinks aisle. A middle-aged couple deliberates over red wine for dinner, while two young guys stock up on beer. I try to pass, but the beer-laden cart is blocking the way.

“Excuse me!”

One of them, with an eyebrow piercing, shoots me an unfriendly look. Not even my dark gray, austere suit seems to impress him. The other, who looks like he just started shaving, appears embarrassed and gives me a lost puppy look.

“Sorry, it’s poker night at our place.”

I peek over his shoulder. There they are at the end of the aisle, looking at me. I could spot those clear glass bottles with red labels from miles away.

“All right, I’ll wait,” I say, though eager to grab a bottle.

While they finish loading their cart, I notice the middle-aged couple, in addition to a bottle of Alentejo red wine, opting for a muscatel. Looks like it’s not just the young folks prepping for a party.

“We’re done,” the freshly shaved guy says as they start moving the cart. “Sorry for the delay.”

“No problem, take your time,” I say, although I can’t wait to get that bottle.

As they move away, I watch them. The one with the eyebrow piercing says something to the other, and they both burst into laughter. I don’t hear the joke, but it must be a good one. Suddenly, I feel nostalgic. I reminisce about myself, Maria, Ana, and Ruth back in college, missing those carefree times. Back then our biggest concerns were parties, boyfriends, and ‘Sex and the City’ episodes.

The guys turn the corner, disappearing from view. Now that there’s a clear path, I head directly to the coveted shelf. I grab a bottle of Smirnoff and turn around. With the vodka bottle in one hand and the tampons in the other, I pick up the pace toward the checkout. I’ve been here for too long, and I’m eager to get home. My brain is racing, and I’ve had a headache since morning.

I’ve been in line for almost twenty minutes, growing impatient. I’m tired, and the headache is worsening. I want to crack open the bottle and take a sip right from the neck. I imagine the horrified faces of my fellow shoppers and nearly burst out laughing. I’d give anything for a sip, but I know I can’t. The daughter of Judge Lacerda de Brito doesn’t drink in public.

The line stubbornly refuses to move. I peek, spotting an old lady who just dumped her purse contents on the counter, seemingly unable to find her debit card.

The fake blonde arrives and joins the checkout line next to me. Alongside the deodorant, she’s got a bottle of whiskey. I smile. She’s one of my kind. During the week, I’m a well-behaved girl. I get up early for the gym before work, CrossFit five days a week. Then, I work twelve to fourteen hours a day, sometimes more. Except on Fridays. On Fridays, if there are no surprises, I leave around seven in the evening. On Friday and Saturday nights, I like to have a drink to relax. When I don’t go out with Rodrigo, when he’s in Lisbon, I buy a bottle of vodka to drink at home. I used to go out with Maria, Ana, and Ruth, but Maria got married and moved to Porto two years ago and has a baby now. Ana also got married and moved to Amsterdam about a year ago. Six months ago, Ruth fell head over heels for the Body Combat instructor and decided to follow him to Ibiza. That’s how I ended up all alone in Lisbon. So, when I don’t have company to go out, on Friday and Saturday nights, I lie on the couch, watching ‘Sex and the City’ episodes, while I drink myself to sleep. I drink half the bottle on Friday and the other half on Saturday. On Sundays, I have lunch with my parents with a big hangover, but they don’t seem to realize it. Sometimes, I think I could vanish, and they wouldn’t even notice. And sometimes, that’s what I feel like doing – vanishing.

The cookie couple joins my line. She keeps talking non-stop, and he smiles. I see the round Styrofoam-like cookies in their shopping basket, and I feel like laughing. Two packs. He’s in for it. He’ll spend the weekend picking cookie bits out of his teeth. That stuff is hard to get out. She bends her head down to look at something on her phone, and he sighs and rolls his eyes. I feel like congratulating him. He’s as good a pretender as I am.

I spend most of my days faking it, slapping on a smile like it’s my favorite accessory. I fake liking my colleagues, fake enjoying my job, even fake enthusiasm during those CrossFit classes. And oh, the masterpiece of my pretense – pretending to agree with my parents. It’s a full-time job being a professional faker, but I do it. I fake being happy because faking it’s easier than telling people how I truly feel.

We grow up being molded into these perfect daughters, told to chase degrees that promise solid careers, grab jobs with fat paychecks, and then snag a house and a car. But surprise, even with all those accomplishments, you realize there’s still a marathon ahead. You need to do more, have more, be more. You need the perfect body to marry the perfect spouse, raise perfect kids, and then be a perfect mother. If you manage all that, congrats! You’ve got the Perfect Life!

So, here I am, ticking all the boxes – Law degree from the fanciest Law School in the country, a job at a top-notch law firm in the capital, a decent car, and an apartment in the city center courtesy of the grandparents. But guess what? It doesn’t mean squat. My efforts feel like tossing pebbles into a never-ending well because, surprise, I was born with a pair of breasts and a vagina. Then one day, it hits you that you’re a target of workplace bullying just because you dared to stand up to him. And what do you do when that happens? You shut up and keep showing up at work like it’s business as usual. You keep quiet because you’re not one to whine. You keep quiet because you’re tough. You keep quiet because you’re a rock in the middle of a storm, getting hammered by rain and wind. You’re a rock, and nothing can crack you, nothing can knock you down. But let’s be real, there are days when you don’t feel like a rock. There are days when you feel wrecked, shattered, and hollow. Today happens to be one of those days.

The cookie girl tucks away her phone and glances over at her boyfriend. He flashes her a smile, and I can’t help but burst out laughing. He’s a master at pretending. He deserves a gold medal or something.

Finally, the old lady digs out her wallet and settles the bill. Then she starts packing up the stuff she dumped on the counter at a snail’s pace that’s driving me crazy. Trapped in this windowless box with a growing crowd, I’m getting anxious. I need to escape.

A guy in a suit and tie hops in line—tall, dark, and handsome. Probably in his thirties. He’s got a little girl, maybe five or six, in tow. She’s rocking a pink Minnie Mouse sweater and light-up sneakers. The man’s glued to his phone, oblivious to his daughter’s attempts to catch his attention. I exchange genuine smiles and goofy faces with the kid – a refreshing break from my usual fake grin routine. She giggles and tugs at her father’s hand, but he’s ignoring her. She tries again, pointing at me, but he brushes her off, engrossed in his call. The kid stops smiling and I stop making faces.

Glancing back at the line, the old lady’s is still bagging her groceries. I clutch the Smirnoff bottle tight. She’s bagging so slowly, it’s like I’m watching a slow-motion movie. Then, out of nowhere, a stabbing pain hits my chest. I grip the vodka bottle harder, trying to suck in a deep breath, but it’s no use. The woman keeps bagging. Dizziness sets in. I glance at the cashier, and finally, the woman moves on. The line inches forward, and I manage to load my purchases onto the conveyor belt. My hands are trembling. I lean on the counter, but the shakes won’t quit.

The guy next in line takes his sweet time bagging. I’m itching to scream “Hurry up!” but I bite my tongue. The tremors worsen, and my vision blurs. Another jab of pain sears through my chest, stronger this time. What’s happening?! I can’t faint in the middle of a store! My legs give way, and I slide down the counter, ending up on the floor. People are glued to their phones or lost in their thoughts, and no one seems to notice the crazy lady having a meltdown amidst the groceries. The chest pain intensifies, and I’m struggling to breathe. I’m sitting on the floor, head against one of those chocolate displays by the registers. The girl with the light-up sneakers glances at me, but her smile’s vanished.

“Dad!” she shrieks.

The father finally pockets his phone and glares at me. I start breathing loud, trying to force air into my lungs. The chest pain is unbearable. The cookie guy spots me on the floor and comes over. The girl’s father looks relieved. He’s off the hook.

“Do you need help?”

“Chest pain,” I say, gripping his arm.

Ridiculous! Here I am, sitting on this filthy supermarket floor, holding onto a stranger’s arm like it’s doomsday.

“What’s up?” asks the cookie girl, joining her boyfriend.

“Chest pain,” he says, trying to pull away.

She eyeballs me, then him, then back at me. After that, she turns to the line and screams:

“Call an ambulance! She’s having a heart attack!”

Her voice slices through my brain like a knife. Now I get why the boyfriend’s always grinning – with that screechy voice, he’d eat Styrofoam cookies just to stay in her good books.

I close my eyes, hoping it’s a nightmare. Heart attack at twenty-nine? Too young, right? But the pain won’t let up. I hear quickening footsteps and voices. Opening my eyes, I’m met with a gathering crowd. Some look curious, while others look downright annoyed that I’m ruining their evening.

A supermarket staffer approaches. “Ambulance is on the way! Clear some space, folks, let her breathe!” he commands the onlookers forming a ring around me.

Kneeling beside me, the man places a hand on my shoulder. “Hang in there a bit longer, help’s on its way.”

His words only ramp up my nerves. Paramedics are soon going to surround me. The thought alone kicks my heart into overdrive. I crane my neck and catch sight of my purchases on the conveyor belt – a bottle of vodka and a box of tampons. What a joke! I can picture the headlines: “Young woman has a heart attack buying vodka and tampons.” I wonder if they’ll call me a “young woman” in the news? Or maybe “twenty-nine-year-old woman.” Because let’s face it, I’m almost thirty – not exactly Spring chicken anymore.

The pain intensifies, and I can’t help but let out a moan. A woman, sporting purple leggings, kneels down and yells in my ear, “Hold on, the ambulance is coming!” I want to snap back at her, tell her my problem’s my heart, not my hearing, but I resist. I shut my eyes once more, attempting a deep breath, but it’s impossible. All I can think about is Monday’s court hearing. I can’t miss it! I can’t decide which hurts more – my chest or my head, which feels like it’s about to explode.

Out of the blue, the crowd around me scatters, making a path. Two paramedics show up at the supermarket entrance. One, is a tall, muscular mulatto with striking green eyes – a hunk, as Ruth would say. The other is overweight and bald. They approach, and the bald one kneels beside me.

“What’s your name?”

Despite the agony, I’m disappointed it’s not the mulatto speaking to me. The bald guy continues staring, waiting for a reply. I want to answer, to say my name’s Melissa, that friends call me Mel, but the words won’t come out.

“What’s your name?” he insists, checking my pulse.

My breaths grow louder, and the world begins to blur. I can only think about Monday’s court hearing and the vodka and tampon headlines. I shut my eyes, feeling like I’m trapped in an underwater world. The voices fade into the distance.

Vodka and tampons… I’ll be the office joke for weeks. I recall Claudio’s parting words, and I wonder if he was right.