I feel like I shouldn't speak about my anxiety. I feel like it will never leave me if I mention it. How can I ever be free if I invigorate it with my words?
For a couple of hours now, I have this stupid sickness in my stomach which I get when I worry too much. I can remember it happening only once before. Maybe six years ago. It drives me up the walls, so I want to write. Usually makes me feel better. But talking about anything apart from the sickness would, frankly, be dishonest. And I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to be seen like that, a girl who gets her guts tied up in knots out of worry. I won't let you know what I worry about, maybe you figure it out, maybe you don't. Just know that it's stupid, and besides the point.
Seems like somewhere in my mind, I appreciate the appearance of freedom more than the freedom itself. I cannot control how I feel and my crybaby heart. The freedom is being honest about it. For me, freedom is the opposite of shame.
I force myself to write today. I can't really speak about my knots with the people around me right now. I'd like to be able someday. This is the closest I can do.