An open letter to Anxiety
Hello. I mean, hi. I mean, good day. No, actually, we’ll stick with hello.
This is for all of the time I have spent worried about people hating me. This is for the time I was still nice to that girl in the seventh grade even though she had a “secret” Piczo account dedicated to how much everyone hated me. This is for the homework I did for people just so they’d let me eat lunch with them. This is for all of the times I drove people around so that they would hang out with me. This is for the money and energy and years of my life spent trying to get people to like me.
This is for of all the times you’ve made me doubt myself. This is for all of the tryouts I didn’t go to and jobs I didn’t apply for because I assumed someone else would get the part or the job. This is for every time I played a wall or a door or a tree or a wheel or the CN Tower in Improv class because I didn’t think I was funny enough to actually talk. This is for all of the stories I’ve written but never showed anyone. This is for all of the things I’ve started but never finished for fear of not doing each of them perfectly. This is for all of the reasons in my head that justify holding myself back.
This is for all of the times I’ve not been able to focus until my bookshelf was alphabetized. This is for all the hours I’ve spent cleaning just so I can study, because I couldn’t possibly learn anything on a messy desk, in a messy room, in a messy apartment. This is for all of the times I’ve colour coded my closet, just so I could feel like I had control over something in my life. This is for all of the times I had to check to make sure I locked the door, and for all the bottles of hand sanitizer and packages of bleach wipes and empty Tide 2 Go pens.
This is for all of the times I have assumed the worst. This is for every time I thought someone was dead because they didn’t respond to my text message in a timely manner. This is for every time I’ve convinced myself that I forgot to turn off my hair straightener and, therefore, that I must have burned down the apartment building. This is for all the time I have spent worried about what I did to piss someone off when they are more tired or hungry or distracted than usual. This is for every time I have apologized for something that has nothing to do with me, hiding behind the guise of “empathy,” but really covering all of my bases, just in case it all really was my fault.
This is for all of the times I’ve broken down because I said the wrong thing, and convinced myself that someone hates me, and didn’t finish what I said I would finish, and let the apartment get too messy, and decided that I’ve done something to grievously offend my boyfriend or my mom or my best friend or the cat. This is for every time I have let things build up until I just couldn’t take it anymore and took it out on the smallest, silliest little problem that was not worth the tears and the anger and the expletives I threw at it. This is for all of the times that I desperately wanted to but couldn’t control the panic in my mind and the pressure on my chest.
Mostly, however, this is my call to collect, dear Anxiety. I’m calling to collect on all of the fun I’ve missed, all of the places I didn’t go, all the people I didn’t meet, and all the things I didn’t see. I’m calling to collect on all the minutes and hours and days and weeks and years I have spent in your clutches. I’m calling to collect on everything I might have been and might have done if I hadn’t been so worried about my kitchen being clean, and what I did or did not earn, and what people thought of me. I’m calling to collect, Anxiety, but I’m also calling it quits. I’m done with you. It’s not me, it’s you. I hope we will not still be friends.
Goodbye.