Anxiety

There’s something wound up inside of me that occasionally climbs up and lives in my shoulders. It nestles itself there, making knots and shrinking my neck. Sometimes it climbs out of little holes in my face, turning red and then oozing little fountains of pus. Sometimes it curls around my stomach, encircling it and constricting it like a snake. Often it runs lines in my mind that pull me away and envelop me in a palpable gray shroud. It makes me run, too, in a feeble attempt to shed its heaviness. It condenses time, it clogs the present and shrinks my future. 

Sometimes I blink through the haze to convince people it’s not there. But I’m only deceiving those that are too absorbed in their own world to see what’s right in front of them—which to be fair is quite a few people, often including myself. 

I can’t tell whether it’s always there, if it’s constantly sleeping within me. I am learning how to tame it when it wakes up. I am learning that it can be quelled, muffled, even momentarily forgotten. I just don’t want it to swallow me. I don’t want it to steal any more of my time or my presence. 

Submitted as part of the 2025 Humanities and Healing Event.

By anonymous