I grieve, but not because of death

Is it possible to grieve without death?

To grieve is to mourn a loss. A loss so great that it hurts every day.

Today, after having cried so hard last night before bed that my blood vessels burst in my face, and after having cried again this morning after pushing myself to go running in the woods (the only thing that makes me feel like I’m moving forward) I talked to myself about what I am grieving over.

I listed all of the things I am mourning – and in most cases they are not losses in themselves. They are a grief for what could have been; not what once was. If you catch my drift.

I tried to give myself therapy, by asking that same little girl inside of me, the one so humiliated, and that same woman that I was ten years ago, the one so degraded from then up till this very day, to feel comforted because I was here. The older me, the learned me, the experienced and knowledgeable me. I’m here, and I’m proud of me.

But that only works to some degree. I’m a writer. That’s what I did for work, that’s what I have done since I was a child. Dear reader, I CANNOT WRITE.

I spend my days eating too much, watching films and TV. And spending money I don’t have. The only things I do of any significance towards my supposed recovery are running and swimming. I guess that’s something. Some of the time I am okay, most of the time I present to my family and friends as okay. But I am not.

Yet, I know that doing nothing and spending time at home, after quitting my job, is supposed to be helping me get over my grief. So that I can live some sort of life.

But I don’t seem to be healing. Or maybe I am, and I just don’t know it.

The fact remains I am grieving now, more than I have ever grieved since I was a child.

And the only death involved in this griefpexels-photo-302804.jpeg will surely be mine.


I’m angry – Living with anxiety

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.


I will surely cry

Tonight I am feeling especially inadequate.

I am nothing, a no one.

No one to talk to, no one who’ll listen.

Alone and deflated.

My work goes unnoticed, my youth is fading away. I take selfies to remind myself I’m not ugly.

I disgust myself if I eat too much.

My body aches. My mind is tired.

Mr Anxiety is with me today, as are the several giants, the cloud of doubt and fear and worthlessnes. Tonight they overwhelm me.

And I will surely cry.



My anxiety stole my youth

Today, a faint smell coming from the platform I was waiting at for a train reminded me of a part of my childhood.

Once again, I was a sensitive, scared lost little child waiting for other people to decide what I should do.

This was the day I met the Grey Cloud of Fear. She skittered around me, as if her heavy cumbersome frame was as light as a feather. She took her place beside me, till her heavy, rain soaked limbs enveloped me into a stronghold.

Ingrained within me since nursery school, it is no wonder that this same indoctrination follows through to adulthood.

I’m always waiting, for something or other to tell me what to do. It has gotten easier over time to take my life into my own hands, but what the Grey Cloud of Fear doesn’t tell you is that it will not go away.

I wish that I had the strength that I do now, ten years ago. Because my anxiety stole my youth. It really did.

Today, I spent time with my family. They’re constant reminders that I am home.

But after all; as the Grey Cloud tells me mercilessly; time is passing me by, and I may never succeed in anything. I am… nothing.

And I am everything.



My anxiety is killing me

I’ve been carrying around a feeling of doom lately.

It’s there with me; even as I achieve what I set out to achieve.

For instance; yesterday I went to go see a structure get demolished. It was a controlled explosion of course.

The kind of controlled explosion misery becomes, when you live in it for so long.

My anxiety reminds me constantly of my limits. I find it nerve-racking sometimes to talk to people, as the White Cloud of Worthlessness follows me around like a bad smell hanging in the air.

After a couple of failed attempts at socialising, I was visited briefly by Tiny Ray of Hope, which seemed to give me some sort of strength in my heart to pluck up the courage and talk to a lovely lady about the day’s events.

Even so, Mr Anxiety has now planted himself in my brain; and unlike my giant Cloud friends, Mr Anxiety is a slithery creature. He will creep up on you, grab a hold of you, and doesn’t let go for quite a while. Quite the entitled sort.

My work kept me extremely busy; but he was still there, chatting away happily to the White Cloud of Worthlessness, but I ignored them both.

By the end of the day, I joked to a friend of mine how I was dying inside. It’s sad, and it’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

My anxiety is killing me: I observe many a time. It is so debilitating; that it stops me from living any sort of worthwhile life.

He has been with me since childhood, has Mr Anxiety. He used to give me panic attacks, but somehow he too has grown tired of this over the years. He’s become an old man, perhaps with a walking stick that he uses to strike me with occasionally in a half-arsed sort of way. He grunts nonsensically now. But his words are still heard loud and clear.


Yet, I insist that he won’t defeat me.

I can. Whispers Tiny Ray of Hope in its tiny voice.

And so, I continue.