I write about anxiety a lot because it’s something that I regularly deal with. It’s something that I face alone, a haunted house that I live in day after day. It lives in my bones, haunts my life, and pushes away anyone that tries to come near.
One of the things about anxiety is that it’s often irrational – breathing nonsense in my ear, obsessing over nothing, clinging to the minor things said in passing. It’s a spot of red I can’t quite clean, a stench I can’t wash off, something that I can never shake. And I know my anxiety is irrational. I know that I focus too closely and get anxious over those small details often over looked but I can’t stop.
Anxiety is like a haunted house. Some may visit once a year but others live here all year round. Ghosts fill our head and whisper fears in our ears. There’s emptiness and shaking in my house that often scares off even the most trusting. I spend my life running away, fleeing from even just the thought of new anxiety and a new haunted room.