Panic Room.

Friday, 4 July 2014

The problem with anxiety is it's irrationality, at times.  You worry about things that have happened and about things that haven't.  You worry about things that are happening and things that aren't.  You worry about things that might happen, or will happen, or won't ever happen or even are happening. It's the past.  The present.  The future. It's little things.  It's insignificant things. It's petty things. It's big things.  It's about you.  About them.  About nobody.  And you can't make it stop.  Ever.  It doesn't matter that the things don't matter because the anxiety ties them into knots until they do. Matter. Until they matter too much.  Until it's all that matters.  You can't stop thinking (and thinking and thinking and thinking) you can't make it shut up or go away.  You can't sleep.  You can't concentrate.  Your brain is riddled with these writhing anxieties until it's crippled and stuttering.  They're snowballing. The worry turns into panic.  You're forgetting to breath. It's like an approaching Apocalypse and you can't run or hide.  It's a film of car crashes that you can't pause, happening before your eyes.  It's the frantic birds with razorblade wings trying to escape.  Trapped in your chest.  Trapped in your head. You can't close your eyes to it.  It's inside you.  You can't get off this ride.  You try to talk about it but it all sounds so silly and your words are ineffective.  They reassure you that it's pointless and you're worrying over nothing.  That it's silly.  That it'll never happen.  That so what if it had happened. They tell you just to stop thinking about it.  To stop worrying about it.  That's the problem though.  That's what they don't get.  You can't.  Stop. You can't make it stop.  Don't they think you would if you could?  That's just it though.  You can't control it.  It controls you.


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