Welcome readers. Today I have the displeasure of interviewing my anxiety. It has been consuming me lately, and it was time to investigate this hot topic.
Why don’t you take a moment and introduce yourself to our audience.
Are you that incapable to tell them yourself? Well in case you don’t know already, I’m your anxiety. I live off your fears and insecurities. They feed me all I need to ruin every moment.
Where do you live?
In your mind, thoughts are my main control. But my favourite place to visit is your heart, your core, thriving off your joy.
But I feel no joy.
Hm yes, some days depression beats me to the warm bloody crevices of your chest.
Are you enemies with depression?
I’d say we are competing coworkers. We both do similar work but one is always trying to win over control.
What is so great about the control?
Ah, a good question. I take pleasure in being the controller. Of making you act abnormally and question everything. It’s a sick job, but some are better fitted for it than others, like self-compassion. That guy has no guts. I have guts. Specifically your stomach.
Why the stomach?
The stomach, your head, your bowels. They’re all my play toys. Squishy little toys, they make me feel better. It took me years to conquer the stomach, it’s my trophy.
So what do you look like under that mask?
I look like self doubt; second, third, fourth guessing yourself. Head and stomach aches, tense muscles, overeating and sleep difficulties. My favourite part of me is the doom and gloom, that edge feeling like there is something wrong, that something terrible is going to happen. Ultimately pushing you closer and closer to avoidance. Avoiding anything you enjoy, sucking it out of you for sport. Oh and don’t forget that nagging irritability that makes you a miserable bitch everyone loves so much, pushing you further away from everyone else. I love pushing you away from others. Isolating you for my pure entertainment.
So you’re not responsible for crying or pain from moving?
That’s depression’s craft. Skills I am envious of. Sometimes I can make you cry, but it’s often depression sneaking in.
Other than for the joy of it, why are you here?
Look into your past. Your mother modeled perfectly how to be anxious and to despise yourself. You never learned how to love yourself. I grew with every tease and bully you faced, building strength in each relationship you had, friends and romantic. Pushing you further and deeper into my grip, showing you all the horrible things that can happen to you. I whispered into your ear at night, making you toss and turn. I told you all the sweet nothings I needed to convince you. You were an easy target after a couple heart aches.
So you’ve been doing this for 30 years?
Never underestimate the power of history.
What will it take to get rid of you?
C’mon on now, you’re barely smart enough to know I prevent you from engaging and learning anything that would result in my disappearance. Or if you learn it, I battle with your rational thought process. Telling you all the ways it won’t work and making you believe them to be true. Child’s play.
Is there anything more you’d like to say?
Yeah, you suck at writing.
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash