I’m Anxious, Not An Addict

When I twizzle a lock of golden hair around my finger until the snap of strands sound, it isn’t because I am a giddy girl in the throes of flirtation. The notion of a partner has always been more terrifying to me than it has been enticing. I am anxious, not infatuated.

When I still my body and seek shadows as my environment becomes overpopulated, it isn’t because I perceive myself as being too good for the companionship of my peers. Burrowing myself in the retreat of solitude ceases the treacherous spinning of yarns in which my mind becomes knitted. I am anxious, not arrogant.

>When I disguise my ears beneath headphones and disappear into mind and melody, it isn’t because I believe what you are saying to be worthless. Music muffles the suspicion that your words are weapons aiming to tell me that I am less than worthy… The music serves to embellish the background of a life to which I do not feel I belong. I am anxious, not inconsiderate.

When I press a beverage to my lips with alarming frequency and gulp the contents as we share a meal together, it isn’t because I’ve been in urgent need of hydration. The opportunity to occupy my hands and excuse my silence is a subconscious motivator that drowns both tongue and words. I am anxious, not thirsty.

When I consume a disturbing amount of liquor as we sit amidst a gaggle of strangers, all erupting with their own characters that mesh into the night air, it isn’t because I want to be instantaneously inebriated. The liquor only serves to dissolve the walls in which I am enveloped. I am anxious, not an alcoholic.

When my teeth rip the skin from the beds of my fingers until they drip scarlet sheets, my habit is not a statement about my past. Tearing flesh from fingers and feet means I am easing my emotions NOW, not fixating on occurrences back THEN.  I am anxious, not time locked.

When I self-medicate in my spare time until I have merged the darkness of reality with the comfort of neutrality, it isn’t because I found a moment too mundane to endure. My vices aid in alleviating an internal battle so that I am less war and more warrior. I am anxious, not an addict.

When blackened universe speckled with stars form before my eyes as panic attacks and renders my lungs redundant, it isn’t because I want a spotlight shone on me. My heart pounding faster until it unites with my throat isn’t a contrived act in a bid for your attention.  I’m anxious, not desperate.

When you think you can analyse my every action, and neatly label me with a diagnosis so as to know which box to shove me in to and find the shelf to hide me on, know that I am more than my panic attacks and mental disturbances, more than my emotional dysregulation and paranoid withdrawal. I am anxious, not a statistic.

My reactions to this world should not warrant me a stranger riddled with a disease, to be avoided, to be ignored, to be viewed as lesser than and unfit for the reality of this life. I am anxious, not incompetent.

I am anxious, not ill.

I am ANXIOUS, not UNLOVABLE .

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Dear Kat: What Life Is Like Now That You Are Gone

Dear Kat: What Life Is Like Now That You Are Gone

It’s absurd how often I think about you now that you are gone; every casual conversation we ever had an exchange of words I did not realise would cement themselves in the place you no longer are.

Your passing apprised me with the fragility of human existence, and the profound impact interactions could have well after their moment had ceased to be anything more than recollections.

A million words are incoherently strewn in my brain, wishing to string themselves together and sound out like notes to your ears, to fill you with the Love that is owed to all who live -not only to those who have left us behind. I view the warmth of affection as a blanket of selfishness I swaddled myself in, and feel myself imploding with the knowledge that I can no longer infuse you with emotions.

If our true human connections were to be viewed as a single piece of jewelry, then your place around my wrist would have been a sparkling gem I did not pay attention to until your casing was without stone. Now all I see is the empty space in which nothing will ever fit as appropriately, a vacant gap as dull as the darkness that blinded you and a thousand words remain unspoken…
-except the air hears them all: the unoccupied car seat as I barrel along the highway with a melody that chokes of your memory, the way I envision you in my room when all I can think about is how there is no elegant way to describe death, nor the loss of the companions you learn to love along the way and my God I hope you know I loved you

And thank you. The little pieces of yourself that you have left behind are enough to help feel closer to you whenever there is a lacking; the way you laid yourself out was a patchwork manner in which we could piece you together when we no longer knew where to look for you. With the haze of hurt slowly subsiding, and the reality of a life without you settling in your words become clearer, your truth becomes louder…

Yet still it is as if every memory I access ties itself to you, and of a multitude of neural fragments yours stab the sharpest until you are a migraine I do not want to be rid of. It would be me who fell to my knees now, if only I could see you! Neither of us recognised the importance of your existence when your lungs still took air, in death you embody all that it means to have taken things for granted. You were an inspiration in the most subtle way, that our very conversations encouraged entire poetic pieces without me ever attributing the significance to who you were to me. In hindsight, my writings have rarely ever taken shape without tragedy. How ironic then, that we find ourselves here. Do I find you here?

Too many of the things I love have chords of you hidden in the tune, speaking through the lyrics and so I no longer know how to listen without hearing you. Yet lately Kat, it seems evermore to me that this life is beautiful: it feels as though I have gone through chrysalis to emerge with wings that you will never see in flight, and I only wonder how bright your wings would have been had you envisioned the darkness as encasing a beginning rather than the cocoon of a curse. Oh, my Skittles! Sometimes I taste the rainbow, and only hope that you have found the pot of gold at The End… ♥