There is no end until you are completely exhausted — mentally and physically — drenched in sweat, in tears and throwing up in the bathroom.
If you ask me now, I can’t even remember why I felt so desperate and tormented.
Do you know what that’s like? To regularly experience the sentiment of what if this is the moment I legitimately die?
You’ve just got to go with it. It’s a bizarre thing to be shaking one minute and walking into work the next. Making pleasantries about cereal choices and bad coffee feels different when you’re still trying to steady your heart rate.
Anxiety is figuring out how to deal with it.
I feel rushed by the sun and relieved on cloudy days when I can stay inside and study without feeling anxious.
Despite my attempts to destroy it, despite the feeling of finally being free, it always finds me. Growing stronger, clinging tighter. Forcing me into withdrawal once again.
In silence, we make room for self-awareness and the ability to be in control of our actions, rather than under their control.
This is really tricky, but just because you feel a certain way — an unspecified tension in the air, a quickened pulse, whatever — doesn’t mean that it’s true.
Mental illness does not mean being “crazy.”