Dear Anxiety:
Please stop. I don't like the tightness in my chest or the shortness of breath. I hate the increased heart rate that just can't see to go down even when I'm no longer worrying. Stop. I loathe the racing thoughts. I can't stand the dizziness.
Not only do you affect me mentally, you affect me to the point where I feel physically ill. I'm tired of worrying over the simplest things. I'm tired of annoying friends with my worries. I'm tired of the anxiety attacks. Do you think I like crying for hours? Do you think I enjoy not being able to breathe? No. I don't. I loathe it with a burning passion.
I usually have no reason to be anxious. I have no reason to think that people are staring at me and judging me. I have no reason to think that people will laugh at the way I walk or the way I look. I have no reason at all. Odds are they aren't even looking my way. Odds are they won't even remember my face when they get home. But no. You've convinced me that they are going to remember. and I know that none of the things you tell me are true, but you are so convincing with your perseverance to have me scared of everything that I can't help but to believe you.
I don't like shaking. I don't like sweaty palms and being teary eyed all the time. I want it to stop. And if you'd be so kind as to leave me alone, that'd be very great.
Sincerely,
Luna.
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Dear Mental Illness
Non-FictionTrigger Warning (self harm and suicide mentions and the like) this is the letters to all the things that are supposedly wrong with me.
