Social anxiety is the abnormal fear of social situations, public places, and most of all, people. It is the heavy world I've been holding up for years on my back, as Atlas was once cursed to do. And what's worse is that I can't rid myself of it--trust me, I've tried.
Anxiety is a psychological hell. It is the boogeyman residing in the dark corners of my mind and taking great delight in my mental anguish. Its minions--fear and stress--flood unexpectedly into my party, preparing for the arrival of a most distinguished guest: anxiety itself. And as my worst fears whirl in an impenetrable cyclone of negativity, I find myself frozen at the eye of a storm, dodging the sharp objects hurtling toward me.
Try to think of it as basking in the sun and then getting drenched by a sudden rainstorm. As you gaze into the sky--feeling mesmerized by its timeless beauty--clouds scud across it, obscuring the faint traces of golden hue and staining it an unholy gray--you know, deep down, that a storm impends. Anxiety is similar. The beauty of creation is tainted. Obscured. Forgotten. The world suddenly seems irrelevant; nothing matters, for the demon of anxiety has perched itself on my shoulder and won't allow itself to be exorcised. It will always be there, mocking me with inhuman squeals and diabolical gestures.
Because I haven't yet learned how to master anxiety, I have to live with it. I've become accustomed to its crippling presence--a presence which never ceases to instill fear in me. But, at the same time, it is a blessing, for it's allowed me to expend energy working on my writing. It has granted me free access to the creative river which flows through the gates and alleys of my psyche.
How can a curse be a blessing?
Anxiety is a psychological hell. It is the boogeyman residing in the dark corners of my mind and taking great delight in my mental anguish. Its minions--fear and stress--flood unexpectedly into my party, preparing for the arrival of a most distinguished guest: anxiety itself. And as my worst fears whirl in an impenetrable cyclone of negativity, I find myself frozen at the eye of a storm, dodging the sharp objects hurtling toward me.
Try to think of it as basking in the sun and then getting drenched by a sudden rainstorm. As you gaze into the sky--feeling mesmerized by its timeless beauty--clouds scud across it, obscuring the faint traces of golden hue and staining it an unholy gray--you know, deep down, that a storm impends. Anxiety is similar. The beauty of creation is tainted. Obscured. Forgotten. The world suddenly seems irrelevant; nothing matters, for the demon of anxiety has perched itself on my shoulder and won't allow itself to be exorcised. It will always be there, mocking me with inhuman squeals and diabolical gestures.
Because I haven't yet learned how to master anxiety, I have to live with it. I've become accustomed to its crippling presence--a presence which never ceases to instill fear in me. But, at the same time, it is a blessing, for it's allowed me to expend energy working on my writing. It has granted me free access to the creative river which flows through the gates and alleys of my psyche.
How can a curse be a blessing?
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