Anxiety is paralyzing.
I feel like no matter what I do; it’s the wrong thing.
Being judged is scary.
Being me is frightening.
It’s like I can’t think straight.
I’m scared of being scared.
I feel like I’m naked, standing in front of hundreds of people, and they are picking apart what they don’t like about my body.
It’s like I’m sitting in a creative writing class, and everyone misunderstands my poem.
One step forward
One hundred steps back.
Two leaps backward, 900 jumps in the river.
It’ll be okay. That’s what I tell myself.
It’s okay, even when it isn’t.
I will always have words. But it’s scary when people read them.
What if they don’t like what I say? What if they think I’m pretending to be scared when I’m actually afraid.
I’m not pretending.
I wish I were faking it.
I want to be acting a part.
Things don’t seem real sometimes when my anxiety is this high.
I hate it when that happens.