College student, crafter, feminist, Kappa
There is a German satellite falling to Earth, she says, “What if it hits me?” welcome to Anxiety Group. The kingdom of the sweaty palm and the jiggling leg, where the women wrap themselves up tight, where the men bite nails until blood, we are the magnifiers of molehills. We are the princes of panic. The ambassadors of anguish. There is no pride here. We lack the discipline of the eating disorder group, lack the self-righteousness of bereavement group, and we’re not as fun as procrastinators anonymous, nobody wants to be here. Me? I don’t sleep, can’t sleep. I make insomnia look professional. Make your tossing and turning look like afternoon hiccups. The longest I’ve gone was nine days, went literally insane. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture you know, and I do this to myself. Melatonin makes me sad, Benadryl is for amateurs, hypnotics turn off the lights too quickly, and weed makes me crazy. Diazepam, Lorazepam, Bromazepam, Alprazolam. Klonopin is the only thing that works and they’re weening me off it, so like a baby forced to remove breast from mouth take bottle instead, I got sent to anxiety group. And apparently, we’re all going to die, because while the girl to my left worries that the satellite will hit her, the woman to my right worries it will hit a nuclear power plant and then we’re all fucked. My father says, ‘Only rich people go to therapy, poor people got shit to do’, and yet here I am, in this lifeboat, surrounded by eight of the most beautiful crazy-ass motherfuckers the world has ever seen. “What if it’s just not a mole, what if it’s a flesh eating virus?” “What if I fail at life?” “But what if it really is the rapture this time?” “What if they hit us again? What if I wake one morning to see planes scraping skies again? What if it’s me this time?” and I think, wow, it must be exhausting to want to live this much. Fuck the depressives, fuck the body image meditation group, fuck sex addicts anonymous, give me your tired, your poor, your anxious, your huddled masses yearning to breathe deeply and count to ten. Give me this collection of blurted confessions of psychosomatic itch, of twitch and tick, of stutter and sweat. Give me these week-kneed, jumpy-ass, too-much-saliva, break-out-in-hives, awkward-stomach, hair-falling-out, chewing-lips, restless-legs, pounding-heart bastards any day of the week. These people who fight through every day like fucking gladiators, who fight demons worse than you and I could dream of just because they want so badly to live. To hold on, to love, because you can’t be this afraid of losing everything if you don’t love everything first, because you have to have a soul-crushing hope that things will get better to be this afraid of missing it.