Are they laughing at me?
Don’t look.
No, look.
Were they looking at me?
Was that a joke?
Was I supposed to laugh?
Why didn’t I laugh?
Now they know something’s wrong.
My hands are sweating. Don’t wipe them on your jeans. That’s obvious. Act normal. What is normal? They’re still talking. Nod. Smile. Not too much. Too stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Not that much. Now you look weird.
Thoughts become worries.
Worries become proof.
Proof becomes panic.
They say your response to an event matters more than the event itself.
That’s comforting — until you realize your brain is the event.
Images flash. Not memories — possibilities.
What if I say something wrong?
What if I already did?
What if they’re replaying it later and laughing?
Out yourself to fit in. Shrink. Adjust. Blend.
Be agreeable.
Be less.
Be quieter.
It feels like walking across broken glass — carefully, carefully, don’t step wrong.
Or like I’m in a basement filling with water. It’s at my ankles. My knees. My ribs. No alarm. No switch to drain it. Just rising. Quietly.
And no one sees it.
They see a girl standing there.
I feel something stalking me from the inside.
It creeps in without warning — sits down like an unwanted dinner guest. Eats everything. My energy. My appetite. My focus. My sense of humor. My ability to breathe normally. And when it leaves, I’m empty.
Avoid the party.
Avoid the call.
Avoid the explanation.
Because how do you explain unraveling?
The scary part is this: anxiety isn’t something attacking me.
It’s my own brain.
My body believes it because why would your brain lie to you?
Why would I lie to myself?
Anxiety gives me anxiety.
I panic about panicking.
If I could calm down, I would. Don’t you think I would?
My body betrays me.
Hands shaking.
Jaw tight.
Chest vibrating.
I look unbalanced. I feel exposed.
I notice everything.
Tone shifts. Eyebrows twitch. The half-second pause before someone responds.
Did I say too much?
Not enough?
Something wrong?
It’s exhausting.
I used to think the door I felt locked behind was keeping others out.
Now I think it’s been keeping me in.
Trapped between what if, what could have been, what should be, what never will be.
I have become a professional at breaking my own heart. I set standards so high they scrape the sky — then hate myself for not reaching them. I demand perfection in conversations, achievements, personality, existence.
And when I inevitably fall short, I dig the hole deeper.
I tell myself I’m intelligent. Analytical. Self-aware.
But what if I’m just overthinking myself into paralysis?
Other species use intelligence to survive.
We use it to dissect ourselves.
There is a voice that says, It’s going to be okay.
But it doesn’t sound kind anymore.
It sounds rehearsed. Suspicious.
Like it’s trying to quiet me just long enough for the next wave to hit.
Sometimes I feel detached. Watching myself from somewhere behind my own eyes. Saying words I don’t fully feel. Laughing on cue. Moving correctly.
Depersonalization. That’s what they call it.
I call it being a ghost in my own body.
There’s this tug — one toward growth, light, ambition.
Another toward self-destruction. Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just slow erosion. Skip the opportunity. Cancel the plan. Stay small. Stay safe.
Rock bottom can feel stable.
You can’t fall if you’re already on the floor.
The unknown is worse.
But I know anger and sadness corrode the container that holds them. And I’m tired of being the container.
I’m tired of finding beauty in my sadness and tragedy in my joy.
Tired of mistrusting calm.
Tired of waiting for disaster after happiness.
For once, I want what is… to just be what is.
No hidden meaning.
No analysis.
No threat beneath it.
Just existence.
I want to open that heavy door.
The one I’ve been pressed against my whole life.
I want to step out of the cage I built from expectations and fear.
I don’t want to destroy myself just to feel something.
I want to feel something without it destroying me.
And maybe — maybe — the battle isn’t beautiful.
Maybe it’s just exhausting.
And maybe surviving it quietly
is enough.
