Dear Anxiety,

Dear Anxiety,

Fuck you! Seriously, just fuck off already, you awful little bitch.  I hate how you always sneak up on me and surprise me when I’m not even expecting it.  I know you have an especially difficult time staying away during these heavy winter months.  You must get cabin fever too, I suppose, but please – could you not disrupt my fucking life because you’re bored?  I seriously hate you, and hate is a really strong word.  I reserve it for very few folks.  I do have a handful of individuals I hope end up burning in hell – some relatives, some former bosses.  There are others, as yourself, that I have personified so that I can properly hate you – you, anxiety – the sneaky little cunt that creeps up on me,  freaks me out (often without justification), causes hyperventilation, and then renders me useless and frightened for hours.  There’s also my mistress manic-depression, who I in turn both love and hate for at least she has made me wiser and more empathetic.  What have you done for me, anxiety, other than make me miss hours of work, cry under the covers, and fear all interaction?  You really are just fucking awful – really.  I’ve personified self-doubt too, so I can tell her to kiss my ass whenever I have defeated her, but there’s something triumphant and motivating in that victory.  But you, anxiety, whenever you come around, you always win.  You’re a terrible, cheating, lying piece of shit.  You’re just a completely awful, wretched, stinking creature with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.  I could go on and on and continue to berate you.  Here’s the trouble with that though.  When I berate you, it’s also a judgment on me.  I, too, feel like an awful, worthless, weak, cry-baby asshole.  So, now, while the words flowed quickly, without hesitation or correction when I believed I was cursing only you from behind this key-board, now I sit here, immobile, hating myself, unsure of where to go from here as I realized I have damned my own self with such words.  I know I can’t go outside – no, no, no – you convinced me that terrible things will happen if I leave my home.  For some reason, I believe those awful, damaging lies.  Those lies drip from your mouth with such delight because you know you can make me such a hopeless, gullible, victim.  You’re some kind of evil, alright, some kind of evil.  I just wish you would fuck yourself and get out of my life.  You wicked thing – you know you have stolen all of my weapons for fighting you – my courage, my strength, my confidence, my determination.  You’re a liar and a good-for-nothing thief.  Just go to hell and get out of my life already.  You are the biggest fucking cunt I have ever encountered. 

Sincerely, Angela