My anxiety drives me to bed night after night
and I sit here crying over worries in my head that mean nothing; never existing nor written down in my life—acted upon in my life. I sit here, tangled in my sheets, sobbing.
Night after night I find no solitude in my being;
cursed with a mental state that shatters at the second of an emotional hiccup.
This stigma strangles me.
I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I sure as hell feel crazy in every thought that passes through my mind, and every tear that slips down the canvas of my face.
How do you travel through a journey, blindfolded by the very thing that makes you human?