Anxious

She chewed on her fingernails as she started out of the extravagant window, and her thoughts began to consume her. Every rain drop in sync with every catastrophe she could possibly imagine. They all start off small, shethought she could handle the small ones. But then they got bigger. Scarier. More real. One moment her head whispers “When are you going to find the time to wash the 4 loads of laundry at home?” and the next was “What ifyou forget to pay the bills? What if you flunk out of school? What will happen if you lose your job? What if he starts to dislike you? What if you’re alone forever?”

In the very back of her busy mind she knew it was all bullshit. Her fear of failure, loneliness, fear of losing what sanity she has left. Hell, even her fear of spiders was bullshit. And yet these are the things that keep her awake at night. Things that she would rather sit at home and worry about, rather than making improvements or distracting herself with friends. Because she can’t. It’s immobilizing. Back and forth, back and forth.

Her chest tightens, her fingers and toes tense. Her eyes blurry with confusion. She’d rather lie on the couch in a ball than deal with this. Every fucking day. Family is calling to check in. Better not answer it so they don’t ask what’s wrong. They can tell. They can always tell. When they asks she just says “I’m tired”. It’s the truth though. She is tired. So tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of being manipulated by herself. Tired of all of it. Knowing how to find a balance and having the motivation to change isn’t enough anymore when her body can’t figure out how to move.

Work is hard. People think she’s a happy person. And she is, unless she’s thinking about things. Yes, things. That’s all they are. Stupid fucking things. They mean nothing, yet they’re the one thing keeping her from living life without any stress or worry. She wants to know how to let them go but she can’t. She’s tried prayer and she’s tried talking. Nothing helps. Not even sleep. At night come the nightmares. The horrors. The things she doesn’t think about during the day, don’t worry, they’ll be there when she shuts her eyes.

She wishes she could figure out how to pick up her guitar again. She wishes she could write a book. She wishes she could be better. Better at everything. And on the good days, she believes she can. But on the bad days, she just can’t do anything at all.