Dear Anxiety and PTSD-induced Panic Attacks,
I hate you. No, I loathe you. You are the bane of my existence and the reason I can’t enjoy the things that once brought me peace and happiness like God or writing or reading. Yes, even reading (don’t ask, just know that it is horrendous). You make me second and triple-guess everything that concerns me. Did I lock my door? Did I cook that too long? Am I performing well enough at work so I don’t get fired? What if I get fired? How I gonna pay for food and rent? Did I spell that word right? Do my friends actually love me or do they just tolerate me? Am I annoying and they’re just too kind to tell me? What if I’m not as good a writer as everybody says I am? What if I only think I know God and don’t actually know Him and end up in Hell?
See what I mean? Anxiety, and you as well PTSD, make a vacuum of my breath and drain me of all my wonderful. You take correction and turn it into a cemetery. You take labels and tattoo them into my self-worth until I believe that who you say I am is who I actually am. You have turned prayer time into a prison cell as I sit and hold back tears that originate from unknown sources of some secret panic. (Who gets triggered by prayer anyway?!) You are illogical at best and highly annoying at worst but you won’t win. You may keep me up at night, but by morning, I’m coming with a vengeance. Make no mistake. I may seem weak, but understand that every implemented coping mechanism and whispered cry of “God help me” in the midst of night’s debut is me regaining power.