Pieces of Peace: My Anxiety is not Romantic



My anxiety is not romantic. My anxiety is not a fetish you can bring into the bedroom.  Someone told you that someone with anxiety is a great lover.  You believe because of my constant need of validation that everything will be okay; I will pour my energy into our relationship.  You are sadly mistaken because I have no energy left to give.

It is not cute when I wake up in the morning. My alarm goes off and I hit snooze. What I do is this; I lay there on the bed feeling this heavy weight on my body.  I try to find the reason why until I’ve come up with a dozen conclusions on why I should get up. But instead, I lay there for an extra ten minutes because I am exhausted.

There are days I jolt up and my heart is racing. I have been thinking about the same problem from the night before and I hate myself that I haven’t found a solution. And even if I did, I probably woke up thinking my solution would just add to the problem. There are days I wake up crying because I have no idea what to do.

There are days I’d wake up three in the morning thinking about the context of a day old conversation.  Or worry about how I may not have enough money in my account until my head conjures up worse case scenarios. Until I’d start to sweat, my stomach churning, and my heart trying to beat out of my chest. There are nights I feel like the Tell Tale Heart because I hear a heartbeat in the room deafening me.

Though I should’ve just went back to sleep rather than keep myself up all night.  If I try to fall asleep all I do is fidget, toss, and turn. I’d think about every problem in my life, from point A to point Z. Only to find it coming back to me.  If it wasn’t for me I wouldn’t have anxiety. Yes, I know it does not make any sense.

Will you still find my anxiety cute when I get an anxiety attack? It feels like I’m choking on air, my heart is trying to beat out of my chest, and everything is hazy. Would you still find it cute when I walk through a crowd trying to steady my breathing? Or would you feel like you are saving me? It would be nice to have a shoulder to lean on. Someone to talk to about my frequent bursts of irrationality rather than hide it and pretend I am okay.

Darling, I need a friend, not a knight or a soldier. Better yet tell me that I should seek help. I do not want you to say that you want to fix me because I am not broken. I am sick, not a jigsaw puzzle.

So please, my anxiety is not a character trait. It is an illness. I need a doctor, not a lover. I am not broken.


Addicted To The Drug

There’s always that drug you can’t get over

Until your face turns a different color


You’re my Achilles’ heel

The weakness I can’t face

You’re the tears in my eyes

The reason for all my lies

You’re the same old question

That keeps me up at night


I keep on running back to you

No matter how many times I turn away

I’ll remember the words I can never say

This is the part where they say “I told you so”

Now I wish I forget all that I know

Now every time I turn around

I can’t get you out of my mind

And I’m back to my vice


I guess the clouds never settled

When I thought I’m sober

Thought it was finally over

Now I’m back to hopeless wishes

Falling over hard choices

Back to the pill that drove me crazy

I already tasted such a bitter ending


The vice that overtook my heart,

When I finally thought I was sober,

You reminded me it wasn’t over.

Now do I want to be saved?

Or stay in this straight jacket?

Through the Looking Glass

Everyone has the same end however we can’t see how our end will be like. We can’t be there to witness the tears or even at times see the joy in a few people’s eyes seeing your casket being buried or your body being burned. Some would most likely cry a river of tears, some would cuss the Lord’s name in vain and other’s would hold their breath hoping to move on. Another thing is that we cannot predict our end until it’s already beside us ready to take us away.

They ask me what I would see

Once a decade or two passes me

Where shall I stand?

What desire do I hold?


In a number of years

I might witness tears

As I burn to ashes

Be the one with broken promises


As I’m laying on the grass

In heaven’s territory

And resting in a coffin of glass

Tears streaking down so many faces