Ranting Place

Anxiety

I still love the people I've lost to this cold harsh war that we all insist that we call life. I still care about them not because I miss them but because I wish to see them be happy, even if that means it's without me. I tried my hardest to keep everyone happy, even when it meant I wasn't. Not that people ever look at that side of things. I have battle scars and open foaming wounds from this war, and I hide them because showing them only seems to get people angry. I try to open up but the voice in the back of my mind only tells me that they wouldn't care. Well some proved that the voice was right. They leave me in torment and pain and laugh it off as if I was fine, as if I didn't have my own issues. Some go as far as to accuse me of not having a problem at all. Because mental illnesses don't care your skin color or your sexuality or if all your friends love you or if all your family is still here and supportive. It's a destructive beast that looms in the night attacking you when you feel the most lost regardless of who you are. What's scary about this beast is that it doesn't just attack, it insists on hurting you slowly. When you feel, no you know that you've failed people that you love, anxiety is there to back you up. And anxiety makes you think things over and over again until your minds fatigued with all the weight of your own troubles that shouldn't even really be a problem. I'm constantly fighting a battle through these tired eyes of mine and most of the time I'm not winning. But I keep fighting because I have too. But I start to wonder, and thinking is always scary. And to think you have the guts to say that I don't have a mental illness. That I don't have an anxiety disorder. I'm so close to copying my doctors papers and plastering them all over the world. But then again as I said earlier, it's not like anyone would care.