Anxiety is a bitch.  Or, perhaps better stated, I am anxiety’s bitch.

I have been thinking.  a lot.  lately.

So much is becoming crystal clear as I make the time and take the time to understand the “why” instead of accept the “am”.

I wonder what has shaped me to be this way.   Why I push people away.  Why I appear one way to most people but my truth is much different.

Why I overthink everything.

Why my thoughts spin out of control.

Why I seem so fucking needy.

Why I feel like I am on the verge of crumbling in to a million tiny pieces if only I had the luxury to do so.

Why I sell myself short.

Why I give up and cut the losses before they are losses…

And I cry.  a lot.  lately.

I emerge daily with blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes.  Tears squeeze out at the slightest twinge of emotion.  The lump forms.  My brain freezes.

And then a lifetime of sad flows out.

Just when I think I have flushed all the possible sad out, it starts again.  It’s as if my central motherboard has a short-circuit somewhere and I don’t seem to know how to fix it.

But I am the only one who can fix it, which seems like a cruel joke.

Returning to my wine-scented comfortable place hasn’t fixed anything.  In fact, anxiety is aware that it has only broken me more and kept me her captive a little bit longer…



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