These teeth that have not been ground to ashes do not belong to me.
This tongue I bite when I fall asleep in class is not mine either.
Images of how things many weeks later may turn out never fails to hijack my mind and scratch at the seams. It tears me inside out, but doesn’t really. I feel watchful eyes that make my face scrunch up involuntarily. I end up tightening my jaws to straighten the emotions on my face.
It’s funny how the crowd takes my breath away, when my breath is not mine.
People scream when they drown, I just hope that no one will see me struggling. I will not drown anyway. I don’t bite my nails but I dig them into my palms and I thought I might have drawn some of the lines there- maps that lead to nowhere. My heart is on a leash that Anxiety keeps tugging on. And I think as it tried to writhe out of Anxiety’s grip, it thought it had to get out of me too. An animal that has gone crazy living in exile clawing at ivory cage bars. Sometimes I hate my heart for beating and giving Anxiety the chance to feed toxins. I told my Mother I have chest pains, but I wouldn’t see a doctor. And sometimes I like to think that I almost touched death. I guess what they call the calm in a storm is the comfort I get from knowing a beast resides in my chest.
Even then, it is not mine.
Inhale, exhale. I can’t even do it right. It does nothing at all. My neck has been so stiff trying to look like I’ve been sitting in a comfortable position. My limbs twitches and I hope nobody saw. I like to tell myself it was just me battling Anxiety who was trying to sever me. As I tried to focus on what is in front, my eyelid twitches. Well, it didn’t have to remind me for the predicament I’m in.
My body is not mine.
My bones turn soft when everyone is watching I thought I might crumble. Instead, I shake. And they think I’m shy, but it’s just that when I speak, I am afraid they might never understand the tangled words that hide under my breath. My head is so heavy I can barely think straight. I lost my voice when I never screamed. There is too much air in my stomach. I had to release them or I might just implode altogether. I’ve been gulping too much air. I have no idea. I can smell the cheese I chewed on just now. And I hope the other passengers on the bus could not. If only I could swallow anxiety whole. It lingers. Anxiety strips me to my bare bones. But my bones are not mine.
I am Anxiety’s.
Anxiety has friends, but I don’t. And sometimes he brings them along. Fear, Depression; whoever you might name. They have time up their sleeves.
And I don’t.
I say I have the strength to fight them,
but it all seems too much like a physical flaw.
Anxiety is not just about attacks. It’s about everything it slowly takes away. You don’t even know you’re losing it until you couldn’t find it anymore. It’s about everything you could’ve had. It’s about not having the voice to even be asked to be excused to the bathroom because it takes much less energy to bear the pain in your stomach than to find your voice. Anxiety takes over your body. Anxiety takes away your voice. Anxiety changes you. Anxiety makes you, not you. Anxiety steals your name. I cringe at Anxiety. And I cringe at my name.