Anxiety, You BITCH! (5/14/2018)

I can see myself as though from a position above – a watcher, who can not only see the breadth and ferocity of my situation, but too, the depth of raw emotion that clouds me from my own ability to see.  I am lost in my vision of even myself.  I am crushed by a pressing weight of angst as it spreads through my chest causing pins and needles to crawl and twist up my neck thus creating the desperate need for me to gasp for air – pulling it in over the hot coals that reside in my chest.   

I struggle as though breathing through sand, but I drag in a raged breath.  I gasp and draw not enough air – only enough to sustain life; only enough to feel the agony of my breath as it catches on the sharp edges protruding from my heart.  Each snag makes my soul cry out in despair.  But there is no stopping the pain, for it is also coursing through my blood – a river of molten desperation, restricted in flow and building pressure. 

My closed eyes bulge at the thin layer of lid that keeps them in place.  My arms feel bound and unable to flap as they want – in an attempt to re-balance and give myself a feeling of control.  My fingers pulse with the need of release. 

Panic continues to rush through my veins at an excruciating pace – so swift it may devour me, but so sedate that it may solidify me in my anguish for eternity. 

I want to run but my legs feel heavy as though they are being filled with liquid lead - cooling, weighing me down and leaving no chance of escape from this torture.  No matter the lead, for even if I could find the strength to move my laden legs, I am all too aware that fear has wrapped its talon-like claws about my ankles – frigid tentacles burning into my flesh, gripping me, anchoring me, seizing me in its grasp. 

I am collapsing from the inside.  I cannot manage the slip.  I am not in control.  Control only taunts me from a dark corner, somewhere just beyond, where I sense it will stay just out of my vision and out of my reach.  I feel the sneer and the mocking of my weakness.  Control taunts me as feeble and I am. 

I cower.  I serve.  I rhapsodize of you – not with delight, but the enthusiasm of knowing you will release me just before my destruction so as to preserve me as your play-thing for another day.

 A Doodle by Autumn Boyet Stinton ©2018