Inner Workings

Dear Anxiety,

You funny little thing.

Dear best friend, worst enemy, guardian angel and devil,

Dear Anxiety.

I cannot recall when we first met, or when you first decided to take root within a home not belonging to you. I think we met when I was small. Likely six or seven, maybe eight. I had my first panic attack when I was ten.

You're a funny little thing. You whisper into my ear sweet nothings that push me into the abyss. Depression is good friends with you, but I've got to say, as the bearer of both, you two leave me confused. The contradictions that spill into my brain make me feel unproductive and guilty for staying in bed a little longer, and yet, too insignificant to move. I'm in the wrong no matter what I do. Please make up your minds.

There's a pressure in my chest, weighing me down. I think it's of your doing, friend. You see, you fret so much that your poison seeps into my rational thought. The words in my head, the ideas I've learnt to trust, are contaminated with your fears and so, my whole body is stricken in terror.

I'm sorry you fear so much. I'm sorry that the lady at the front desk scares you so much that you would rather bleed then ask for assistance or a bandaid. I understand that it's scary. I wish I could give you a hug, hold you close to my chest and promise you that this world isn't as frightening as you've made me believe it is.

I will take your hand, Anxiety, and we will learn to walk this life together.

My therapist, a kind and as you've mentioned to me, scary lady, says to ignore you. But, I don't think that this will help either of us. I need a better solution.

Just remember that as much as we fight, as much pain as you bring me, I'm still stuck with you. And we may as well live it out.

This is the first of my letters to you, but I don't believe it is the last.

Love,
Your withering host, A.