I wish I knew how to describe it, this feeling I have in my chest. It’s a slightly sick feeling, a tightness, my body’s way of trying to tell me that something isn’t right. What isn’t right? I have no idea. See this is a product of the anxiety that has been following me around since I was a kid. Even with medicine, it still nags at me on a daily basis. Tonight is worse than usual, because it has me feeling physically sick rather than just mentally so. It feels like someone has grabbed my rib cage and is gently squeezing it in their icy cold hands, and even that isn’t an accurate depiction of what this feels like.
I wish I knew what it felt like to not constantly worry. Even when just sitting in my mom’s living room, I’m scared and worried. About what? I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. It’s a living hell that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. The room feels out of focus and all I want to do is sleep, but the fear makes me not want to lay down, as that is leaving myself open to attack. There are no attackers, but my flight or fight is in code red and there is no going back right now.
I wish I knew how to convey the shakiness of my hands even as I type this, but unless I don’t correct every mistake I make (and trust me, there are a lot), there is no way to show you what is happening. I look fine. I look like another 20-something staying up late on their laptop. But that is a clever rouse that even the best psychoanalyst would have trouble breaking through. The only thing worse than worrying about myself is making someone else worry about me.
I just wish I knew what it felt like to be normal.
To be healthy.
To be sane.
I wish I knew.