Sitting anxiety stories
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jjwritesaverage journaling my way with a too-full head
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
I journal through anxiety attacks. I may not be great or organized but I am certainly not alone.


My body is cement and my brain is fire.

The feeling washes over me but does not roll out like the tide.

It starts in my toes, my chest, my throat, it's all over.

I'm tired. Weary. Stuck. But my mind is whirring and steam is pouring out of my ears.

My feet are bricks that pull me down towards an ocean of apathy. Not peace, not turmoil, just quiet. Maybe i can breathe down there.

My body stretches down towards it but the hands of my thoughts are gripped tightly around my throat.

It feels like I might pop, my legs float down, my lungs expand and fill, my head whirs away like an untied balloon full of breath.

I can breathe when my eyes unfocus and the room goes fuzzy. The shapeless blur surrounding me looks like the surface of a pool from the bottom against a summer sky.

My mind is screaming like a child held underwater. I ignore it until my lungs are burning and I break my stare to look at the wall. My mind is sputtering, gasping, and spitting pool water.

How stupid of you to try to escape, it says, you almost killed us.

So I bring the thoughts to conscious mind. I think about my concrete feet and jello legs. I think about my racing thoughts and tightened chest.

I acknowledge them and send them away, only they don't go. They will, but they're here with me for now, like a dinner guest at the end of the night when all you want to do is sleep. I lie down.

I breathe in. I wait.

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