You’ve plagued my life for years. You crept into my life and grew into a shadow that grew into my personality.

In my elementary years, you were a bad taste in my mouth. You made me fear bringing my report card to my parents, fear my homework, fear not knowing something, fear raising my hand in class. You told me I was dumb. 

In my middle school years, you were a cloud in my head. I was afraid of my peers. I had fears of being an outcast. Fears of being weird. Fears of being myself. You told me no one would like me. You told me I was too different, too weird. You told me I was a loser. I played volleyball in these years, too. I loved the sport until you made me fear it. Fear of being a terrible player. Fear of my teammates judging me. Fear of disappointing my parents. You told me my entire self-worth was in my performance. You told me that if I miss my serve, hit, or set, my parents would resent me. You told me my teammates would resent me. You told me I wasn’t good enough. And I stopped playing.

In my high school years, you were constricting my chest. You made me fear my friends. Fear they would realize I was a loser. Fear they were lying to me. Fear I was going to losing them. You told me they hated me. You told me they only liked me because they felt bad for me. You told me they were talking behind my back. You told me I wasn’t worthy of having friends. 

In my adult life, you were everywhere. You were in my bones, in my skin, and in my veins. You left me paralyzed with fear. I had all these fears of my previous years with the added fear of not being a good adult. Fear of getting fired. Fear of not having an income. Fear of getting evicted. Fear of being homeless. Fear of earthquakes. Fear of fires. Fear of being a terrible cat owner. Fear of everyone lying. Fear of being in a car accident. Fear of going outside. Fear. Fear. Fear. You told me I wasn’t capable of handling anything that might come at me. You told me I wasn’t able to adapt. You told me I was already a failure.

You always were quick, decisive, and persuasive. Why wouldn’t I believe you when you said I was weak?

I never knew your real name. I know it now. Your name is anxiety. I discovered your name when I sought help. I discovered your weakness is mindfulness, breathing, talking about you, and accepting you. I realized I am not a failure. I am worthy of having friends. I am good enough. I’m not a loser. I’m not dumb. And I realized YOU make me strong. If I can still achieve a lifetime of achievements, even with you whispering your lies, I am strong. 

Goodbye for now. I know your lies will never stop, but from now on, I’ll be ready and I will be strong. 

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