Thank you, Anxiety. I couldn't have made it through life without you.
You're the biggest part of me, the only characteristic that people see or bother to look for in me. You define me, diagnose me.
My therapist says that you're making me worse, making me sicker than I ever was before, that I need to get rid of you-but why would I want to?
I've done a little research on you. I have. And I've learned that, through countless vlogs and blogs and seemingly trusting medical websites, that you're simply my primal instincts in overdrive.
My ancestors, everyone's ancestors-their ability to sense and either fight or run from danger is what kept them alive. But isn't that just what you are? Just in an uglier package, in a box rather than with a bow on top.
My Mum says that it was a learnt habit from her, but was it? Sure, nurture vs. nature, I'm sure my environment had loads to do with it-but at the same time, I know you're a part of me that could never be undone by any amount of fleeing. You're tied to me, not my shadow but my flesh, and like Peter Pan you've been sewn into my skin-you're always there.
And that brings me to but another point-you're the only thing in my life that's ever been permanent. You've always been there to watch me, to watch over me-I know you're just trying to protect me.
But I hate you.
I hate the way you can so easily turn something beautiful and inexplicably turn it into something I despise-you take away my friends, my family, my happiness, my safety-with you, I feel nothing and everything at all. It's a constant rush of feeling caught in a swell of emotions, and barely being able to tread water.
I'm scared of you.
Of course, that's part of the deal, right? Because I'm basically scared of everything. Scared that I'll have to relive my past, scared of the present, and fucking scared of the future. Every waking moment of my life I spend in fear, waiting not to fight an unknown battle, but to continue this war with myself.
And everyone knows that in a civil war, the mother country suffers the most.
Anxiety,
I'm sorry.
Not to you-this has nothing to do with you anymore.
I am here to apologise to myself.
All the hell that my own thoughts have put me through, my own nightmare that I've created-I'm sorry. I wish that I could get better, and maybe I will. Maybe someday the voices won't scream as loud, maybe they'll whisper, or one day disappear altogether.
Maybe, someday I'll be brave. I'll talk to my professors without sending myself into cardiac arrest, let cute boys take me to the cinemas, work a normal shift without feelings like I want to burst into tears every time a manager looks at me.
Maybe, someday I'll be brave. And I won't need you, won't depend on you anymore.
Maybe, someday I'll be brave.
And you can leave.
