To my anxiety disorder:

I won't say straight out that I hate you, because how can I hate something that's a part of myself? That's just about the same as choosing not to like myself, and I fight every day not to do that.

What I will say is that you exhaust me. You make it hard to get up in the morning, because I'm pinned down by a million thoughts and fears about the day to come. You make it impossible for me to think clearly at times, because there's just too much happening inside of my own head to zero in on one thing. And searching constantly for the one medication that will help me make you less of a loud voice in my mind is frustrating and physically exhausting.

I'm tired of feeling like you control me.

I knew for a long time that there was a reason that unusual things scared me, that talking to new people felt like a daunting undertaking, that I pictured every worst case scenario every time. When I was given a name for these challenges, I felt validated for a moment, but was left with even more anxieties about talking about my own disorder. They don't warn you that with diagnosis of a mental illness comes the times when you have to talk about it, the moments that make you even more anxious than you already were.

So, to my anxiety: thank you for making me appreciate good days more because I know how to debilitating the bad ones are. But that's about all I can think to thank you for.

Because you make everything harder. Relationships, friendships, simple tasks, work, future planning, being alone, being with people, new experiences, believing in myself —it's all so much harder sometimes because you're in the front of my mind yelling negative thoughts, putting me down, and making me scared. I'm tired of that, and I'm tired of you.

I'm sick of fearing the worst every time. I want to believe that everything will always be alright, but I'll never convince myself of that.

I want to stop letting one bad thought spiral me into a day's worth of sadness. I want to believe that I'm worth being around, and some days I do, but too often you're there yelling that I'm a liar, that I'm wrong and failing everyone around me.

But I'm fighting you. Really, I am. It may not seem like it or feel that way yet, but every time I admit that I'm loved, every time I'm reassured by someone that I'm not a failure, every time the worst doesn't actually happen and I can breathe again, I'm finding a small victory in my struggle to be better than you.

I know that you'll never be totally gone. I know that you're a part of who I am. But I also hold onto the hope and the knowledge that one day your voice will be quieter in my head, that I'll be able to mute you sometimes, that I won't let you sabotage the happiness I'm building for myself.

I'm a happy and successful person, with you, in spite of you, and maybe even because of you.

That being said, we're still not friends.

Your unwilling but accepting host,

The normal person who also has anxiety disorder.