[This poem first appeared in Harness magazine]
My anxiety and I are best buds.
She holds me tight when the night sets in, wrapping me in her arms.
The questions start to swirl in the darkness; I wonder
Am I dying? What is this bump? I can feel my heart beating; I must be having a heart attack.
Stop, breathe; be quiet!
My anxiety and I are best buds.
She and I walk hand in hand into a room wondering if anyone would like us
She whispers in my ear, ‘They are gonna notice, because they always notice.’
Stop. Breathe; be quiet!
Smile and nod; you’ve got this, right?
My anxiety and I are best buds.
Am I going to be late? Is this dress appropriate? What would they think of me?
Oh no, I said something stupid and now it is playing over and over in my head.
She whispers, ‘They noticed, because they always notice. Maybe you should just leave.’
My anxiety makes me Google about every bump or scrape or rash.
I am dying, Google says, and my anxiety agrees and plans my funeral
In
Vivid
Detail.
I weep for those I would leave behind.
Then, I am ok, and I laugh at myself for believing HER.
Then I hear her whisper….
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