The Day My Anxiety Began
As we struck the final chords of our set, and the last lyric closed out, a heat washed over me unlike anything I had ever experienced.
Topic: anxiety
As we struck the final chords of our set, and the last lyric closed out, a heat washed over me unlike anything I had ever experienced.
High-functioning depression is a slow-burn, invisible but powerful. I can be all the things everyone expects me to be. At the same time, the fire inside will eventually consume me, if left to its own volition.
My story is only one story, but it’s a story that matters—as does yours. You are me and I am you, if in no other way than that one. And I can tell you with the most genuine of hearts that I want you to live.
You are not my good days, and I am not my bad days. You are not my existence.
Sexuality was my primary struggle growing up. When I was 13, I had the first instance of being attracted to men. During the process of figuring out who I was—I dealt with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and even attempts.
You may not be able to stop rain from falling, stop pain from hitting, but you can choose how you respond once it does. You may not be able to change what’s been done to you, get back what was taken from you. But you can choose to be brave today.
All hearts are connected. I believe those words, but when I typed them, I sighed. Simply put: Caring takes effort, and that effort can be taxing.
Being able to talk openly about mental illness is critical for the health and survival of a long-term relationship. Here are some pointers I’ve found may assist in connection, understanding, and support.
Even while in therapy, I still called a crisis line following awful days at work. I told them I was having suicidal thoughts, and I just wanted it to stop. But the truth is, therapists and counselors can’t chase away your demons, not without your help at least.
If you're lost, if you're trapped in the silence—please know that there is a way out. And it does not involve you leaving. It involves you staying.
What was it, I wonder, that was so special about that particular road trip? The one where you filmed the trees passing by through a window smudged with fingerprints and morning dew?
Although they saw it as just a skit, it was my life. My struggle.
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