Anxiety prevents me from speaking my mind. And on the rare occasions I do, it prevents me from backing myself up, despite being bright, opinionated and strong-willed.
Anxiety prevents me from entering conversation that means a great deal to me, about things I have some knowledge or experience or a great passion for.
Anxiety stops me saying words I want to say to you, to him, to her, to them, to the world. It holds my tongue.
Anxiety prevents me from standing my ground. From standing up. From being proud. From being counted.
Anxiety does not let me be the person on the surface that I am inside. It does not let you see me, it’s does not let you hear me. It does not let me fight.
Anxiety does not let me give you everything I want to give you nor everything you want to give me.
Anxiety makes me look weak though I know I am strong.
It makes me look cold though I know I am warm.
It makes me lose words though I know I have many. So, so, so, so many.
It makes me hate me though I know I am loveable.
It makes my world small though I know it is vast.
It keeps me awake though I know I am tired.
It keeps me active though I want to relax.
Anxiety steals, and breaks and hurts and lies.
Anxiety is a bastard.
An absolute bastard.
I will never beat it. But I know it is wrong.