Anxiety – that spindly, inky phantasm has taken a permanent residence in my being. It has nestled in the crevices of my subconscious mind, emerging here and there, darkening the waters.
Too long its darkness muddled me this past week, clouding my way, until desperation clawed at my insides with the ferocity of an unhinged beast.
It was my mother’s curse for decades. I was unaware of the extent of her suffering, but I was the victim of it. For years her disease pressed upon me with vileness and persistence, and now it has pushed past my boundaries and found its hold into my own mind.
My strength comes from recognition. The need to tear my soul and mind apart until I find it. I will not be a victim any longer to a disease that wasn’t mine to begin with. I will purge it from me, one damnable tentacle, and thread at a time. I will rip the spindles out even if I bleed.
Denial is as insidious as the anxiety, and I am done with both. If there be a war inside, then let there be war. Let fire and brimstone burn away the debris and reinvigorate the undergrowth. Like a phoenix, I will rise, and rise again.But, for every curse, there are also blessings.
Desperation and pain breed compassion. I now know the depth of pain my mother withstood. The separation of mind from body, as the body rebels in fight or flight, locking away the soul in a tower.
It’s a particular kind of suffering, remote viewing, feeling a body racked with fear, seeing the world from a distance, a soul sequestered unable to control the miniscule tremors affecting every cell.
And for those of my kind, the writers, poets, storytellers, and artists that suffer the same affliction, my heart aches for them. The kindred seekers of humanity’s soul who succumbed to their mental illness. All those brilliant beings who lost their hope amid their depression, and anxiety. The great wordsmiths who took their lives, or drowned their madness in a bottle or drugs, slipping along the muddy sides of the darkest of holes. I understand them more than I have ever before. My heart weeps for the loss of them; for their defeat at the threshold of the pit.
I must hold steady. I must be strong and be the writer that is pulsating brilliantly in me like an iridescent vibrating star. For in her, my salvation lies.
I must not fall, like so many before me, to an inky black creature that is of my own creation. A creature I will find, destroy, assimilate, and evolve from. There is always hope, always light, always the providence of salvation, and I will survive.