I am furious.
I’m angry that my anxiety has been so debilitating, that I’ve not been able to live my life.
I’m angry that the older I get, the more regrets I have. And with every passing year, Mr Anxiety triumphs over me. He, who celebrates a private victory with every hour that he steals.
I’m angry that the world doesn’t owe me anything. That it would chew me up and spit me out and not give me a second glance. I’m angry that that is the way it is.
I’m angry that I’m sad all of the time. I’m angry for being a sensitive child, to this day, she lives inside of me, fearful and pathetic.
I’m angry that my confidence and self esteem is so rock bottom that it almost drills into the earths core.
Today I screamed. I shouted out loud because I could not contain my despair. My utter torture at being the one left behind. Because this anxiety is killing me. And while my peers, and those who are much younger than me seem to be living. I am dying.
The white cloud of Worthlessness has all but enveloped me completely. I’m suffocating.
Yet I persist.
In a way, I am two people, living side by side. One resentfully bitter. The other drags me through life, albeit screaming.
Yea, I am angry. Angry that life has been so cruel to my loved ones.
Yet I persist. I’m tired. But I’d drag myself through hell if I had to.
Because I am not dead yet. Therefore I must live.