What, Me Worry?

Two, maybe three, small, white pills a day.

I am among an ever-growing population of people whose flight-or-fight is always triggered. Whose body believes it just ran a marathon after waking up in the morning. Who won't go anywhere new without detailing a step-by-step to follow in their mind of how to get there.

My mind and my body betray me every day. My mind assaults me, throwing insults and filling the quiet spaces with "what if" until there is no more quiet and the intermission between thoughts becomes the main act.

Rumination should be the eighth deadly sin.

My body betrays me as my heart races and my chest hurts, my hands shake and my eyes tear up. I hate the feeling when my ears burn. I don't like being called upon during class. I only like being seen when I want to be seen.

Anxiety is the great con artist. It will tell you lies until you believe them, and will make you paranoid beyond belief.
I don't trust people.
Anxiety makes it hard to let people in, but also makes it hard to let people out. Anxiety blames you for everything.
Anxiety doesn't care that your life is going well.

I become Atlas.

I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. That phrase is used too often, but that is exactly what it feels like. I am crushed, exhausted. My body betrays me and my knees buckle, I collapse, barely catching myself. My chest hurts. This must be what it feels like to die.

Anxiety tells me to forget how to breathe. It fills up my mind with static until I can't remember how to tie my shoelaces. After jogging class, on a Monday in February, around 11:30 am, if you don't believe me. It was the 25th.

Anxiety makes me feel like all of the companions in the Wizard of Oz at the same time.

If I only had a brain, a heart, a home, the nerve.
If only I had nerve.
Some days, I feel I can get along just fine without the brain, but the lack of nerve is... unnerving.

Survival of the fittest.

I am rarely in my element. Nearly any environment I am put in, I am not in my element. Throw me in an art museum, a poetry reading, and I can stand on my own two feet. Yet some days, walking across the parking lot seems like a hero's quest.

Most moments are spent trying to crawl out of my own skin. My mind wants to run away from everything, even itself.

Nervous ticks turn into scratching your skin until blood is drawn because it feels like your bones are itching.
You want to get out.

The act of leaving the house is one that can be extremely easy or extremely difficult. Some days, I want to be nowhere. Not home, not out of the house.

Maybe Nowhere Man was written about me.

You may be wondering "what's with all the Beatles gifs?" Well, Yellow Submarine is just about the happiest, loveliest movie I could possibly imagine, so including reminders of something so good makes the bad things seem not so bad.

We're all just kids, after all.

I write this because I am tired of being quiet. No more do I wish for anxiety to beat me into submission, into silence.
I do not want to perpetuate the fear of being open about this.
Nearly everyone I know suffers.
I don't want people to suffer in silence.

For anyone who has to suffer, you may be surprised to find out how many people are walking the same worn path as you.
We're living in the same tight quarters, but our yellow submarine has been painted black.

So I'm trying to get my hands on some paint to make things yellow again.

Until next time, friends. Chin up, don't panic, and remember that the Blue Meanies won't go away unless you play some music.

Sincerely,
A Fellow Worrier