You don’t look like an
anxious person.
No, I don’t.
Does anyone? Is my anxiety defined by the way the colour of
my eyes marble between blue and grey? Are my panic attacks measured in the same
way my height or weight is? Perhaps my bouts of irritability or fear of the
unfamiliar fluctuates depending on if I’m wearing Converse or Vans?
It’s not that I agree
or disagree. I know that I do not seem
like an anxious person – not always. But I also know that this person - and
many of the others that tell me I don’t ‘seem’ anxious - do not see me in
tears, unable to breathe. Or speak. Or think. All for no obvious or apparent
reason.
It reminds me that I’m not entirely sure of who I am. Or
what I am. If I don’t seem anxious
now, does that mean I’m not?
You need to find
something to sort that out. Breathing, or something.
The woman who brought me into this world sometimes seems to
be the least caring of all. It is not that she doesn’t care – I know that, but
my anxiety doesn’t. It is just that she does not understand. Sometimes I’m not
sure that anybody understands.
I know that people are capable of understanding, but they
will never be able to experience; burnt lungs, like I have been running a
marathon; tears streaming from my face faster than I can wipe them away. I feel
other-worldly. Not quite supernatural. Nor unnatural. It is like I am somewhere
between this world and the next. Numbness. My head encased in bubble wrap.
Sometimes scratching my skin to the point of drawing blood in a desperate
attempt to bring me back to a point where I can even recognise the fact I am alive.
And here I am, being told I need to ‘find a way to sort it
out’. As if my brain is a quick fix, rather than a lifetime arrangement.
They’re just not worth
it, you know you’re better than that.
Yes, of course I do. I suppose. But that is not the reason I
am in this state. It was too loud. Too many people. Too warm. Too cold. Too
many ‘too many’s’ that I cannot control. Too much of being used to it but still
always being caught off guard.
Have you ever harmed
yourself?
He is young; dark hair; strong jawline. I wish they were the
only things I remember from that night. He couldn’t find the vein in my arm. He
wasn’t particularly nice. Then again, it was 3am. The waiting room was cold. I
was exhausted beyond words. I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to come in the
first place. I didn’t want any help. I didn’t need it. But there I was.
Some days I don’t think about it. Some days I dream of it. I
miss it. It is part of me. There is no day where I control it.
Are you okay? You look
worn down.
Yes.
I haven’t eaten a meal over 300 calories in five days. My
head pounds more naturally than breathing. All I see is grey. Everything I see
is grey. Like my life has become the pathetic fallacy of an overcast day. I can
plaster on makeup, but if I carry on I will be dying. It is not that I don’t
care. I want to live. I just want to be thinner doing it. I want to be better doing it. From obesity to
starvation all in acts of desperation that nobody sees nor hears.
But ‘yes’, I tell them. I am okay.
How do you feel when you’re
anxious? I get stressed too.
I ask him every day if he still loves me. And then, again –
if he’s sure he loves me.
I know he does. I pick it up in the ways he wakes me up in
the night when I might be having a bad dream. In the way he kisses me with
sleepy eyes. The way he holds me close whilst I sob like most people will never
cry as long as they live. The way he escorts me to all my doctors’
appointments. But it is all these things that make me question if he loves me
–if he could ever really love somebody like me. How can he love someone that
survives day-to-day without really living?
I can be a strong character – strong minded, willing to make
the joke that other people wouldn’t dare to – but I am more fragile than
snowflakes and wine glass stems and dandelions on a windy day.
One loud noise. A voice downstairs I do not immediately
recognise. Waking up before him. Waking up after him. Using cutlery I don’t
like. The dark. Crowded spaces. Running late. Being early. Being tired. Being
unorganised. Not understanding. Sitting down. Standing up.
It can all end in desperate lungs like oxygen no longer
exists, throat burning like bonfire night, eyes stinging like wasps in the
summertime, sobbing like it is the end of the world, shaking like an
Earthquake.
But I don’t look
anxious.
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