Let me start by saying that this was supposed to be a great summer. I was supposed to become stronger and better, and I was supposed to meet my last year of college fully prepared. It was supposed to be a summer to speak of.
I had no room for you in my plans. Thank you very much for nearly ruining everything.
The problem with you is that I often feel accountable for you, an admittance that pretty much ends with a ton of guilt and self-hate. I let you control me and this is how most of my regrets begin.
I don’t know when I first met you. My life, which I used to dream about in future tense, has now become a series of desperate prayers: “Please just let me survive this day.”
You cripple me and you limit me, and I can’t tell anybody that I think it’s your fault. They’ll think I’m crazy. In the eyes of anybody, I am my anxiety. I am that scared, sad, shy little girl who keeps a diary of if-onlys. I am you; and I hate you–you and Depression, but that deserves its own letter.
For as long as you are in my life, my silver future is a faraway dream and all my molehills are mountains. For as long as you are in my life, I don’t have any long-term claim on happiness.
Anxiety, old friend: you have overstayed a welcome that was never yours. I can’t wait to be rid of you.