Your breathing becomes heavy. Everything is falling around you, and there are weights on your chest. You can’t take the weights off, because when you look down, they aren’t there. Your mind is chasing itself in circles, and as much as you want to get it to stop, you can’t. And the worst part is, you can’t tell anyone how you feel, because they wouldn’t understand. Welcome to my world. Welcome to anxiety.

I didn’t always used to be this way, and I know that. I used to be able to stand in large crowds in a way that presented me as fearless. I was fearless. I knew that. I used to be able to walk up to a counter and order my own meal, because I could actually find the words to, instead of feeling like I was going to throw up.

I don’t know what changed. I don’t remember when I was asked to bear the weight of the world, and I certainly don’t remember when anything that I came in contact with had the potential to shake me and change the outcome of my day. I don’t know when I became so afraid, and I hate it.

I hate it. I hate it because I didn’t ask for it, and I will never understand the people that do. I hate it, because while all of my friends are having a good time, I am biting my nails, worried about what’s going to happen next. I hate it because my definition of normal has become anything but that. I hate it because every time it gets the best of me, I convince myself that it’s my fault that I’m anxious. But most of all, I hate it because my friends call it a self-diagnosis, I call it a way of life.

So, anxiety, thank you for getting the best of me when it's most inconvenient. You’re the worst, and I hate you.