Image by Aaron Blanco Tejedor Unsplash.com
Facing It
1.
They hated
Were divided
Hostility towards differing beliefs
created labels ripping society apart
A problem . . .
everyone
wants to hear
what they already believe
An x iety
Violen ce
P a i n
De a th
Division
We were exhausted
And decided
To choose love
2.
We dream of peace
But
In reality we live
In cycles and circles
Tragedy leads to news
Which leads to fear
Which leads to anger.
Seemingly unsolvable problems
And no changes
A problem…
No one
chooses
To listen.
3.
Fighting and arguing everywhere
On television
Radio
Newspapers
College campuses
In homes
Cities
Businesses
Government
Polarizing leaders
Bosses
Teachers
Politicians
How do we integrate?
Collaborate?
Consolidate?
Agree?
Let’s try more listening
Hearing
Suggesting
Problem solving
Sharing
Understanding
My Crippling Anxiety
Blood.
Dripping on my clammy, rough, sore fingers.
The ache of the edge of my thumb feels like a knife wound.
Hands.
So dry, yet, dripping with sweat rushing out of my pores.
Pushed to the surface by my rapid heartbeat trying to escape my body.
Nails.
Gross and bitten so ferociously that not even a memory of the white is left.
Scars and open flesh wounds constantly torturing me remind me of my biggest insecurity.
Lips
Constantly bloody, bitten and broken.
The only thing stopping me from torturing my hands is hurting another part of me.
Legs
Constantly moving; shaking; disrupting.
Maybe the world would be better off if I wasn’t always disrupting.
Anxiety
Breathing feels like the pressure and pounding weight of the world choking and crushing me. The doubt from my anxiety makes me want to hate myself. I am constantly tormented as I nitpick and find something awful about every square inch of my body. Confidence is a foreign word to me. The only way I value myself is through others’ opinions of me.
Yet, even if the opinions are positive, a twisted little demon in my brain stops me from feeling joy. He yells, constantly, louder, louder and louder until I find a way to spin everything against myself. I can never turn off this voice. It is always there lurking in the shadows finding me every day, every hour, every minute.
Hurting my mind isn’t enough, though. The man in my brain causes me to inflict pain on myself. Trying to hide the blood that constantly drips from the edge of my nails is a part of my daily routine. Sense is gone in my fingers. I blame myself. There must be something wrong with me. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me? Why do I freak out over every little thing? Why do I have a panic attack once a day?
Why can’t I express these feelings to anyone else?