This is what anxiety feels like.
I live in my own mental prison. I raise my hand to my heart and feel it beating like the heart of a little rabbit on the run. My hands shake. My legs are weak. My life is perfect. My head is not.
I wish I could break open my chest and let all the demons out. They claw at my back, roll in the bottom of my stomach, and threaten to emerge in a shower of tears, but rarely do.
The worst part of my anxiety is that it holds me right by the edge. It never drops me - just lets me hang there, scrambling for solid ground. I’m not falling, but I’m not standing either. I’m cowering. I’m paralyzed. I’m insane.
Multiple voices criss-cross in the blackness of my mind like playful, violent shooting stars. One is the voice of reason and practicality. One always gets ahead of itself. One is the all-knowing, clear, puncturing voice of truth. One unsteadies the truth in a frenzy of analysis and calculation. One whispers tempting distractions. One wants and wants and wants. One just tries to laugh and breathe.
I’m somewhere in all this. I am all of this.
I would give anything, anything, to be free of this.













