I have an anxiety disorder.
I know, I know.
We all do.

It’s 2019. We’re Gen Z.
We grew up eating Red 40,
and processed sugar’s our religion.

But I have an anxiety disorder.
And ADHD. And a bit of OCD
when it comes to schoolwork.
Or books. Or anything that
does not matter.
But my room? Hahaha,
what’s cleaning?

I have an anxiety disorder.
That phrase goes through
my head several times a day.

I feel the constant buzzing.
My dance teachers used to
tell me to radiate energy
out of my fingertips.
And I do.
My hands tremble constantly,
and I forget to breathe.

I used to be that kid that
always had an imaginary friend.
When I was little,
his name was DeeDee.
But when he went away,
and there were others.
Like characters in a story,
but I could see them. Talk to them.
Now the voices are just in my head.

I have an anxiety disorder.
I like to talk. A lot.
Sometimes I’ll say a sentence
and not get to the point
for an hour.
Ranting’s like a pastime to me.
I’ll just ramble on and on.
Then stop myself.
“So, how’s your life going?”
Two seconds of silence,
Then back to whatever
show, or movie, or teacher
was annoying the hell out of me
whenever this conversation started.

I promise I don’t do this because I
like to hear myself speak.
On the contrary, actually.
I hate it. I hate my voice. I hate my words.
But I can’t face the silence.
Because whatever I say out loud
is a million times better
then the voices in my head.

“Shut up.”
“They don’t care.”
“You forgot to do this.”
“Remember that one time
you said that thing
freshmen year.”

I have an anxiety disorder.
I have ADHD.
I’ll have OCD if I get worse.

And if I could flip a switch
and it would all go away,
I would
in a heartbeat.
Snap my fingers and move to
a deserted island without any
people to judge my every move.
But then I’d be left with the
thing I hate most.
Quiet.