Writing.

The Ghost of Anxiety.

Like a deaf man sensing an alarm clock shrieking from behind the drywall of his studio apartment, I am unconcernedly perturbed.  In denial of a racing heartbeat.  It’s difficult to not care about caring in this generation.  Too much internet to worry about.  Too many status updates to peer through.  Too many people attempting to trump their own insecurities, all while scavenging the insecurities of others.

I don’t usually feel this way; this mental ickiness is no longer a norm for me.  I pride myself on being a person that spent years battling an anxiety disorder before finally rolling over and saying, “Just take me.  Bad shit is going to happen whether I like it or not.  And my life is not going to bow down to my ‘vision’ of what I think it should be.  So let’s call a spade a spade, diagnose me with control issues, and trade up this anxiety bullshit for good ole fashion honesty.”  But every once in a while, when the mood is just wrong enough to be right and stars of procrastination and fear align, I feel those dark prison walls of anxiety once again.  Closing in on me.  Locking my jaw and numbing my thumbs.  It’s a slow-crawling sensation and it makes me feel…weak, I guess.  Like a champion who knows deep down they haven’t really ever had to face a worthy opponent.  Or like a big fish in a little pond, who knows that once they cross over into that huge stream of ocean currents and depths beyond our knowledge, they will inevitably go missing and eventually dissipate into the deep blue of shoulda-coulda-woulda.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say.  I’m not sure if I’m talking about anxiety or fear of the unknown…or doubt.  I just know that it’s 4:30pm and I’m not where I want to be right now.  And I feel embarrassed for it.

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