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…