Learning to Manage This Catastrophic Mind of Mine

Anxiety. Seven complex letters that come equipped with nausea, overthinking, difficulty sleeping, palpations, nervousness. Not to mention depression can be attached or sold separately.

As I’m waking up to begin the day, I can already tell if it’s going to be a walk in the park, or a battlefield. Very rarely is it ever an “in between,” or “OK” day. As I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, the negative thoughts engulf me of what awful aspects could enfold during the day. My brain becomes clouded by darkness as various questions drift into my consciousness:

Why can’t I seem to be happy?

Why can’t I just pull it together?

Why am I even existing as a physical entity?

What is my purpose and will I ever find it?

Yet I force myself out of my refugee (the bed) to pick out an outfit. Not just any outfit, I’m talking about putting on my “happy” or “neutral” face to hide my true self from the world. Walking down the street I see a few familiar faces, as I force a smile back. At the job and in the classroom the common greeting of “Hi. How are you,” has become a robotic smile and an answer of “I’m fine. Thanks. What about you?” Yet I really want to scream out my true feelings written on my face and all the chaotic thoughts haunting my mind.

Now in my case you can add social anxiety into the mix, in which communicating with people becomes another struggle. For the friends I meet, I hold onto them because they’re far and few in between. Do I speak of my anxiety? Oh no! I used to think “Everybody has problems, who wants to hear or even care about mine?” I don’t feel like hearing the typical responses of:

Cheer up.

Things will get better.

Stop being so down on yourself.

As if I choose to have these overwhelming thoughts creep in my head on a daily basis.

Then night comes as I find myself alone with my thoughts, with the occasional tears that flood from my tears, in which my pillow catches. Never grabbed the razor or a knife, but I did learn how to pick up my pen. I pretend that the paper is my skin, as my words bleed emotions between each line. The tears create droplets and bring back the past memories, toxic people and situations that were never meant to be.

I have found comfort in my solitude, while learning to manage this catastrophic mind of mine, perfecting the art of loving myself including these “societal flaws.” Nonetheless on my journey, I am thankful for my real paper and my pen.