I have an anxious mind.
My mind works against me in ways that are hard to explain. My mind and body are in a disconnect from the functions, or lack thereof, that take place in my brain.
My brain works in ways that make me anxious, depressed, paranoid, sick, and tired– all at the same time. I worry about the most odd-ball things– and I am fearless towards things that make normal people anxious.
Yes, I said normal people, because I am not normal. What I feel is not normal. I am educated enough, and have enough common sense, to know that the thoughts I have, the experiences I live, and the behaviors I engage in, are not normal.
I'm tired– so damn tired– all the time. I should be though, I don't get much sleep. I am awake when most people are asleep. Often because thoughts flood my mind and I can't make them stop; but, sometimes, I am awake because of no reason at all. Much of the time my eyes are closed is spent remaining awake, listening to my heart beat too fast for my own good.
And my body is heavy. The blood flowing through my veins may as well be lead. The longer I feel like this, the thicker it gets, weighing me down.
But as I feel heavier, my body is getting thinner. I don't want to get any thinner– but somedays, it is impossible for me to eat. Many days, I all ready feel nauseous, and the thought of food is repulsive. Somedays, I forget to eat. Then there are a few days where I am just too tired.
I fuel myself with caffeine. It's the only thing that gives my mind and body the jolt needed to function– and I don't care that increased caffeine consumption can increase anxiety– I am anxious regardless. Somedays, the idea of coffee is the only motivation I can find to get off the couch.
I overwhelm myself with responsibilities, so that the busier I am, the less free time I have to acknowledge how sad I am. I have two jobs, an internship, and 18 credit hours, to keep me occupied.
I'm a broken soul. I've been broken before, and I've been mended.
But the way I am– the way I've always been– comes in waves.
I'm ashamed to admit that I'm broken. Ashamed to admit that I'm depressed. Ashamed to admit that I'm anxious. Ashamed to admit that I am seeking help.
I'm ashamed because I'm pissed. I have a good life, I have family and friends that love me, fundamentally, I should be happy. But it's purely chemistry– those who say happiness is a choice must have never experienced the depths of sadness so deep that you lose the will to function, to live.
And right now, I'm not living my life for myself, I am living for the people that love me.
A light is ignited within me when I am in the presence of people that love me– I perk up, smile, and laugh. It's completely insincere, an act I put on, but it's second nature, a defense mechanism to shield my loved ones from exposure to my realities. The last thing I want to burden them with is worry.
It makes me more anxious when I know people worry about me– and these next few lines are what I want them to know.
I live with anxiety, I'm depressed, and I'm currently broken– but if you want to worry about me for those reasons– you should be worried all the time. But please don't. Please don't because these are realities, conditions, and feelings I live with every day, and have for as long as I can remember.
The anxiety, the sadness, the bad feelings never go away– their intensity just changes.
Take comfort in what you are reading: I will be fine– I may not be okay, but I'll survive. I'm working on myself, I'll be taking medication, and I will learn to live for myself.