I hate saying I suffer from anxiety. I hate thinking of myself as a sufferer of any sort. It makes me feel weak. Useless. Which I know I’m not. I know anxiety is there. It’s always there. Just because I don’t always feel it doesn’t mean it’s finally decided to leave me alone. Alone is usually where it finds me.
It used to be that my heart would beat so fast it would make my brain start whirring and then the thoughts wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, and I’d end up in a state that I couldn’t control. Now my body knows what’s coming and instead of my heart being the culprit my brain does it all on its own. It’s as if every single thing I see and hear enters into my head and then gets stuck there and bounces around and the thoughts just keep collecting, so that even when I close my eyes the darkness morphs from one thing to another and I can’t concentrate on any single thing. There’s too many things stuck inside and my brain can’t hold any more and it’s more noise than a circus and a concert and a train combined and it hurts. My own brain turns on me and begins driving me mad.
This is anxiety peeking out from behind the corner of my eye and waving with a grin. Did you miss me? He looks like the Boogey man and I hate him. I try to hate him. His presence makes everything inside of me collapse. It’s almost a relief when he shows up, because I know that I can’t fight him anymore. I simply resign. I pack up my belongings and move out of his house inside of my brain, hoping I can vacation there again soon.
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