Concern

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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