My best friend wanted to talk and I left her messages unanswered and went out for a few cigarettes instead.
Anxiety is an overrated word that I often use when my limbs don’t have enough strength to climb out of my psychology books.
Somedays, it keeps me grounded to my bed and somedays, it only chases my indifference like a long distance lover.
Some nights, I try to hold myself in a stranger’s arms because the words only resonate with the stories thrown at me.
“You think too much.”
You see, these are my stories and they have a pattern.
They go from the tip of my pen that refuses to let go of my first lover, to all my relatives that talk about my colour and body weight as if it’s their property to bring a little change to.
They go from my parents feeling guilty about not being able to give me things that I wanted, when all my silent cries ever asked for, was a happy memory from my childhood.
Happy seems a word too distant from my neighbour’s hand trying to move up my skirt at dinner. I was 8 years old.
My long distance lover tells me to be a little careful with the amount of smoke I inhale, but little does he know that he is too far to just listen to my heavy breaths over the phone.
I am strong, he needs to believe.
Anxiety is an overused term for fake smiles and mannerisms that only explain themselves when scrutinised by my cousins embarrassing me over them at a family dinner.
It explains itself with the feeling that I get when i realise that all my poems have been trying to tell the same story.
Anxiety, always has a friend.
Yes, sometimes, it’s good old depression that only settles on my skin when my nights are full of recklessly hogging on oreo and my days only know a foetal position in the bed.
Mania when I’ll be seen walking around like a fitness enthusiast, smiling at people for no apparent reason.
This only happens when my doctor puts me on prozac.
In one of our sessions, he was trying to make me realise how precious life is.
I don’t know about life, but I know I wanted to beat death up when it closed in on my grandmother along with the light in my eyes.
My parents don’t know that I’ve started therapy.
Anxiety is often a limbo that forces my whole being to let go of old passions that kept me sane.
“Oh, keep dancing, love. You’re amazing.”
“Oh, no. The way your body moves makes you seem funny. You’re just a mediocre child.”
Bite your nails. Tap your right foot, repeatedly, that’s the only balance you’ve got.
Wear a loose t-shirt. A body con will make you seem pretentious. You know that your body is hideous.
Wear something light, you are enough for the dark.
//Why I refuse to talk about anxiety and why I need to talk about it.
– Monica Thakur
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