A poem from The Book of Qualities:
“Anxiety is secretive. He does not trust anyone, not even his friends, Worry, Terror, Doubt, and Panic. He has a way of globing onto your skin like smog, and then you feel unclean. He likes to visit me late at night when I am alone and exhausted. I have never slept with him but he kissed me on the forehead once and I had a headache for two years. He is sure a nuisance to get out of the house. He has no respect for locks or curtains or doors. I speak from experience It takes cunning to get rid of him, a combination of anger, humor, and self-respect. A bath helps too. He does not like to get wet. As a last resort, if you are not near a bathtub, wet your face with tears.”
I woke up at 4:40 this morning, my stomach in knots, uncomfortable in my clothes and writhing in my own skin. Frantic for an out. A solution. A weapon against my hidden Hydra.
It’s an ugly, uncomfortable feeling. Not like the kind where you have to speak publicly. That’s a piece of cake, even for me. No, this is the kind of tension and stress that causes panic and uncertainty. Doubt. I hate that. Passionately.
Anxiety is in truth, a call to action. An indication of the need to change. To read the stars. To turn the rudder. To watch the compass and captain the vessel I’ve acquired. To new things. New opportunities.
I take pride in producing. I am hard working, industrious. Yet, I find myself here, ‘sideways’.
I appreciate the things in my life, both material and intangible. The people, the experiences, the opportunities… I never take those for gr.anted. I know fine things. I see beauty, often. Uniqueness, craft, care, refinement. These are my world… yet out of reach, at present.
I want this. I deserve this. I will sacrifice, dig in, dedicate myself to accomplishing this…
And I’m saving. Saving the hot tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks for something, someone deserving of their value. Their depth, and understanding. Not you Anxiety. You are unwelcome. Obtrusive. And defenseless against me…