July 17th, 2017

Today the anxiety is worse.


It’s an acidic, oozy feeling, mixing itself around the core of my stomach and pushing it’s toxicity up through my throat.

I try taking deep breaths, but each feels shorter than the last.

What do I worry about today? I worry about abandonment. I worry that I’m not enough. I worry that with each fight, the future becomes less certain, and that my emotions become more of a burden.

I worry that perhaps the silence signifies something greater, something deeper, something brewing below the surface with the potential to catch me when I least expect it. I worry that my inability to remain secure, to feel confident enough will steer him in the direction of someone more stable, more self-assured, less reliant and less demanding of assurance, assurance, assurance.

Perhaps I also worry that I’m losing my identity to another person who feels solidarity on their own; that this person doesn’t need me, and that I would be easily replaced should I continue to drive him away.

But then I worry about the degree to which I have these thoughts and the ways that I feel less than too often. That my worth stems from this other person rather than acknowledgment of who I am and what I’m capable of and how much I could offer the world – let alone, another human being.

I worry that the future bears less significance for him, because he has no plans to stay – and that I’m blindly allowing myself to be deceived by a selfish tangle of two people in love: one short sighted, the other focused too far ahead.

So how do I repair my heart when it’s mostly whole and only sometimes broken? How do I tell myself, “Self, you KNOW you’ll be okay” when half of me doesn’t want to listen? How do I remind myself that the anxiety, the fear, and the past hurt all perpetuate these feelings of longing and desperation and falling short of myself?

I do not know the answer to those questions.

Most days I feel his permanence, and I feel myself okay with living in the moment. But the anxiety sweeps in and I’m startled by its presence, seeming to forget that I’ve been here before and I’ve gotten through the worst of it.

I take silence as a lecture, and that’s the pain of today – the untimely absence of noise following a hurricane of words. Perhaps it’s best to let the dust settle, to aim my energy elsewhere, and to cultivate a healthier set of emotions doing things that feel good to me and to the growth of my life.

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