A Trajectory of Anxiety

Day 1
Begins physical manifestation of anxiety (post 8 days of emotional trauma). Symptoms include repeatedly dropping from 90ft in the air, along with shortness of breath. Pops klonopin and bra to deal.

Day 6
I would say there’s a 200-pound weight on my chest but that would be lying.
It’s more like a 50-pounder that’s permanently attached to my hip. That makes it easy to smoke my last cigarette 10 times over. And lay in bed all day, waiting for clean sheets to arrive.

Day 7
Woke up feeling not so heavy, but slowly vanished through the course of the day. A weed, snaking it’s body around my lungs, closing my windpipe. It’s getting harder to breath. Dress starts feeling too tight, pops klonopin.

Day 9
Reverts to college sophomore-self during class tonight. Articulation of thoughts are thwarted from a fear of failing and judgement. Pops klonopin so mouth can form words.

Day 9, later
Walks in an empty city. Zig-zagging the grid, meditation is found.

Day 13
Four days without the little yellow pill of courage.

Anxiety is an exhausting and beautiful thing. Spending two weeks between breakdowns and a klonopic haze really gets you asking “What the fuck?”.

It forces you into continual obsessive thought, resituating the same experience from different perspectives to understand its depth. It’s a painful, yet insightful process:

  • waking up alone is hard to do, but it wasn’t before you got used to waking up next to someone. the scale will balance in time.
  • you will get in trouble for being too quiet. you will get in trouble for being too loud. keep your head down and play the game better. then, the scale will be weighed in your favor.
  • she celebrated life as genuinely as a soul could on this earth. we all must say goodbye at some point. remember her innocence and how her love warmed you. there is no scale when it comes to death. only the end.

When life hits, it hits hard. Once, twice, and thrice for good measure. Luckily, three is all you get. If it goes for round four, there’s something seriously fucked up in the cosmic universe.

MeetMe, Poetry

Open Letter to a 24 Year Old.

You are crazy.
You are batshit-bananas, over the moon crazy.
And I love you for it.

You laugh and cry like you’re going to die tomorrow.
You feel. Strongly;
you are loud and ferocious, but oh so fragile.
You don’t let the crazy get in the way;
you let it seep out here and there just to make sure it doesn’t overcome you,
just to keep things interesting,
to make sure you’re still grounded.
You move on.

You’re a hard person.
Life has made you independent,
for good reason.
You’ve learned how to survive;
how to fight wars and rebuild torn down walls.

Now, you leave the bridge down.

It’s taken a long time.
It was scary; treacherous,
but you did it.
You showed someone else, open for all to see;
a tulip in spring.
It’s been a long time. And I’m so proud of you.

This is just the beginning.
Most things won’t work in your favor.
But learn from tears. And heal from laughs.

It’s a big world. One step closer, one step older.

A 25 year old