Some people don’t understand what it is like to be anxious. Nobody really does. I guess, except the anxious. We come in hordes, sending worrying fumes across the nation. One whiff and you’re caught. You worry about worrying. Anxiety is huge sticky rock. It suctions itself to your back and follows you around and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. That person over there is watching you. That’s dirty, it has germs. Don’t touch! You will DIE! If you don’t do this five times in a row, I will steal your family away from you. I will taint your peace of mind, whatever is left of it. It has a low, hollow laugh. Do not mistake it for a person but it is a living breathing organism. You give it life, you feed it. The more you feed it, the more it grows. Like a spoiled child whom gets everything he wants. More cake, more ice cream….more whining, more screaming, more control. Relinquish it. The control. Give it to me. Control is an illusion. Anxiety wants you to think you can have it. It’s almost out of reach, a balloon floating away in the wind….chase…chase….chase
I wash my hands for the 10th time in a row. My hands are chapped, bleeding. I stop and watch the blood seep through the cracks. Life source. Riddled with anxious disease. Coursing through my veins…
“Tristan, you’ve been in there an awfully long time. Are you planning on coming out anytime soon?” my grandmother calls through the door. Disease that runs through the blood.
“Yes, I’m coming. Give me a minute.” I reach for the soap for the 11th time.