anxiety [ang-zahy-i-tee] (n) - distress or uneasiness of mind caused by fear or danger of misfortune

Fall of 2007 spit a spotlight onto that word. It was the beginning of a new school year, when I had first begun to learn of the adult things little children covered their small ears and innocent eyes to. My fingers found their way to “R” rated movies and exotic plants that make you fly. Kids whispered to me that the math teachers smoke in the hallways during class. Pastor Smith loved little white children and scowled at the black kids. Jacob's mommy cheated on her husband and that people killed themselves when they were real sad.

I realized that the world was more than good mornings, good nights, and I love yous.

The first time I ever kissed anyone brought the monster.
The Monster followed me out of the dark band room locker room, leaving the boy smiling wistfully behind. The Monster put its hand on my heart and squeezed my lungs. The pounding of my heart was deafening in my ears, and my lungs wouldn't keep any of the air I breathed. I had lurched shakily into the bathroom, my mind in a whirl. Panic panic panic. A bunch of what ifs? flooded my mind.

That boy wasn't my boyfriend anymore the next day.

Fast forward two years. A dark, lonely room. The day I found out how mother and father felt at night in their rooms when they loved each other most. The same first kiss boy, someone of minimal interest nowadays, a mere toy, now a young man, asleep soundly under woolen blankets. The Monster is taking his turn with me now, overwhelming me, reminding me once more that I was his. He choked me, stole my breath, shook my limbs, made me numb. I got up, took my things, and left.

This monster has a lovely name: Anxiety. He leaves me every day with feelings of hopelessness, anger, confusion, and Ineedtogetoutofthisnowbeforeitgetsserious. Strengthened by stress and always there for new relationships, the Monster rules my life. When the danger of getting exclusively close with anyone emerges, the Monster appears and I immediately cut off everything, almost happily, if only for some relief of the attacks.

One day, I found a weapon against the Monster.

When everyone was asleep in my house I would crawl across the harsh carpet and into the bathroom, curling up on the cold linoleum with the dullest razor. The duller it is, the harder you have to work at it.
The more pain you get.

My weapon speaks out loud on my arms, scrawly red, torn lines screaming anger, torture, and bitterness.

The Monster is only slightly ruined, if only for the time I spend pressed against the bathroom floor, eyes closed.

I see his face when I look at my reflection. I can feel his gaze mirrored in my own sad, droopy eyes. The Monster says I am worthless, hisses that nobody loves me. He gives me ideas.

Such lovely ideas.

The Monster puts his hand on mine, squeezing it. He takes my hand and puts it on the dull material. He lifts me hand and the object up, placing it against the base of my chin.

Such lovely ideas, Monster.

And then he squeezes the trigger.

Such lovely ideas.