Dear Anxiety.
Dear bane of my existence, dear omnipresent excuse, dear crippling frenemy …
How do you manage to keep showing up at the worst times? No offense or anything, but that whole gig in the middle of that crowded Wal-Mart? News flash, but the frozen food aisle isn’t a cool place to freak out (no pun intended). And, just as I’m about to convince myself I have a hold on things, you remind me of how many different grocery cart paths I’m obstructing by just existing.
Oh, and how could I forget your tendency to butt into all of my conversations? When you jump in like you do, I overanalyze every movement, every facial expression, of the person I am speaking to. Friend, acquaintance, cashier at a drive-thru—every single one. You present me with all of the most intricate worst-case scenarios. What if they hate me? What if I just said something really stupid?
Don’t even get me started on text messages. With you around, a message saying “Hey” with a period at the end gets me panicking that there is a bitter undertone I’m meant to decode. With you, one simple “Hey” isn’t a greeting; it’s a matter of life and death.
Perhaps it would be easier if you were a person, to have conversations with you and hear your side of the story. But of course, you are no person; you are nothing that I can ever see. First, you came to me with the name of Social Anxiety Disorder, a companion to my attention deficit. But as time passed by, you earned another name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
It’s safe to say, although you still run rampant while I dream—God forbid I get an ounce of restful sleep for once—you don’t hold nearly as much influence over me as you once did. Thanks to counseling and medication, I can now self-talk my way into managing my time spent with you.
They used to speak as if, one day, we would part ways. After all of these years, I know you are a permanent part of my life, but that doesn’t mean you have to rule my life.
You’re the reason I have to remind myself to breathe, the reason why tiny tasks can send me into a non-stop frenzy until they are completed. You’re the reason I have to take pills every day, and why I can’t handle the days when I don’t. You’re the reason I have emergency Xanax when the normal dose doesn’t work.
For all these things, I used to blame myself instead of you. Doing so only encouraged you—it only made you stronger. But now I can claim the title of the stronger one. Despite the pain you’ve caused, I have accepted you as a part of me, just not all of me.
You are not me.
All in all, you have caused me a lifetime of pain and frustration. I wish I could say goodbye; we both know that’s never going to happen.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
How do you manage to keep showing up at the worst times? No offense or anything, but that whole gig in the middle of that crowded Wal-Mart? News flash, but the frozen food aisle isn’t a cool place to freak out (no pun intended). And, just as I’m about to convince myself I have a hold on things, you remind me of how many different grocery cart paths I’m obstructing by just existing.
Oh, and how could I forget your tendency to butt into all of my conversations? When you jump in like you do, I overanalyze every movement, every facial expression, of the person I am speaking to. Friend, acquaintance, cashier at a drive-thru—every single one. You present me with all of the most intricate worst-case scenarios. What if they hate me? What if I just said something really stupid?
Don’t even get me started on text messages. With you around, a message saying “Hey” with a period at the end gets me panicking that there is a bitter undertone I’m meant to decode. With you, one simple “Hey” isn’t a greeting; it’s a matter of life and death.
Perhaps it would be easier if you were a person, to have conversations with you and hear your side of the story. But of course, you are no person; you are nothing that I can ever see. First, you came to me with the name of Social Anxiety Disorder, a companion to my attention deficit. But as time passed by, you earned another name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
It’s safe to say, although you still run rampant while I dream—God forbid I get an ounce of restful sleep for once—you don’t hold nearly as much influence over me as you once did. Thanks to counseling and medication, I can now self-talk my way into managing my time spent with you.
They used to speak as if, one day, we would part ways. After all of these years, I know you are a permanent part of my life, but that doesn’t mean you have to rule my life.
You’re the reason I have to remind myself to breathe, the reason why tiny tasks can send me into a non-stop frenzy until they are completed. You’re the reason I have to take pills every day, and why I can’t handle the days when I don’t. You’re the reason I have emergency Xanax when the normal dose doesn’t work.
For all these things, I used to blame myself instead of you. Doing so only encouraged you—it only made you stronger. But now I can claim the title of the stronger one. Despite the pain you’ve caused, I have accepted you as a part of me, just not all of me.
You are not me.
All in all, you have caused me a lifetime of pain and frustration. I wish I could say goodbye; we both know that’s never going to happen.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
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