I look at my arms on my day home from school. Scribbled up by my shoulder are my stressful paths on this everlasting journey. i am going to take you on my deepest road of dark circles and anxiety filling memories. This frightens me to tell you my imperfections , but this is a factor of myself and I would be lying to you if I said it is easy. Listen carefully as you dive into the pen up and down my arms.

You know in life when everything comes collapsing down? The trash can fills up with roses when a relationship fails. You cried so hard you drowned in the tear filled flood. You burnt in the volcano you made of uncontrollable anger? These are all things I have felt struggling with anxiety. I have a need for people to like me. Panic attacks may creep up out of the blue. I let it win and because of this it has defined me. I loose my breath as aI crumble to the floor of the bathroom in tears feeling so alone. I feel no one cares about me in these moments and it seems the only thing I can do to control it is to write. I get anxious at school all the time when I am trying  to work. I need to write so I grab the nearest pen and write all over my arms. This is the only way I have found to calm myself down so I can remember how to breathe again. I start blaming other people when I get in to these moods. i will be at the end of the driveway crying for help and then want to recover my actions by saying ‘’I am sorry.” I am going to have to find a way to control my anxiety. I hear this nagging voice in my head telling me I am going to fail everyday. It tells me everyone hates me and I will get killed because of this. I have nightmares because of anxiety. I will wake up at 2:00 in the morning shaking having a panic attack so bad I cannot breathe. I have written four page poems while having panic attacks. They have controlled my life for years, but I am starting to gain control. And that makes me smile a billion miles until I get to thinking. How could something I hate so much also have saved me? Would I be able to write without anxiety? Would I still have empathy? What would I write this nonfiction story about if I did not have anxiety? Who am I without it? Who do I stand for? I have wondered this for years. I have come up with a conclusion and that answer very simply is

“I am who I am so be it.”

Sincerely yours,

Emotionatic