Letter #8

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Dear Anxiety,

Writing when you're around is like taking a new breath, when there wasn't any air left in my lungs. Every letter I type is another intake of oxygen. You're still there, but I can survive you. Sometimes I have nothing to say, other times I can't type fast enough. My words bleed. They bleed pain, they bleed hurt, they bleed you. I've never been a part of anything. I've always been good at pretending and trying to be a part of something. I've never managed though. When you came into my life, it only made it that much more painfully obvious. I am a piece to a different puzzle. I will never fit in here. Not with my family, not with my 'friends'. Nowhere. I'm not okay with that. I keep trying. Maybe one day it'll change. Or maybe one day, it'll sink in. Then I will finally stop fighting against the current. Maybe everything won't seem so forced. Maybe breathing will be easier. Maybe you'll finally be gone.



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