I was accustomed to this place. My hair split half my face, a color for the left hemisphere and one for the right. Each was an embodiment of my personality traits, and a frame for my eyes that held solace glazed in remission. I was like a phone stuck between two lines. Neither gave me an answer, but both added questions. 

The years of therapy had only broken open new tabs in my mind I wished not to find. My mind was mine to coddle into submission not for others to fondle in quizzed interest. ‘What’s it like?’. ‘Can you hear voices?’. ‘Why can’t you accept others’ love?’. ‘Is she ok?’. The way it worked was different; the neurons fired faster than those of my peers causing my heart great pain. Forcing the veins and arteries to the limit; in it, they pumped gallons of the negative mantras I repeated through my respiratory system. Circulating its essence out of my cavities to relieve some of the overwhelming doubt, but still leaving me to whisk across images that could be described as photographic. 

Each copied memory is a fleeting reminder of the mistakes and fears that I could never truly forget. It was a curse in me that I knew would never truly leave; dreading as it weighs my thoracic cavity to no end. My body now struggles to adjust to the continual addition of weight from 17 years of What If’s. Yet I find comfort in the abyss to conjure up places in my mind where I was in control of the world's events, and it all made sense unlike the places in reality that could not be forced into my station of work. The buttons: school, work, and sport; I somehow managed to push but never worked and if they did they only added pressure to my digestion. You need to eat I thought, but I am not hungry. My stomach cannot process anymore; peristalsis working on overload to churn my ever-growing worry, but it’s never enough.  

The part of myself labeled GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) from birth followed me around. The thoughts unruly and dark seeped into the pores that I strained to keep closed with the constant contraction of my muscles. Was I the anxiety? The fear lingered in the depths of my head; wondering if the instincts I felt when scared to take my own life were actually my own intentions. Was I truly a bad person when the anxiety made me want to step on my pet hamster because it was curious. Or punch my brother out of spite because it felt malicious for the day. 

After years of deprivation, I never realized I carried the weight that still exists, but I’ve become accustomed to its voice and it's just a reminder of who I fear might be the real version of myself inside. 

My mom would say, “You aren’t bad or broken. The fears you describe are simply deflections you told yourself to hide the true problem inside”. 

“No, no I’m bad. There’s no one in the right state of mind who would have the same dark thoughts I have every night. I’m messed up in the head. STOP lying. I know you can't love someone with this disease. I’ve hurt you, Mom please leave”. I would cry anxiously.

“How can you say I don’t love you? I would be broken if you ever left me! Honey I will always love you even if you hurt me many times. Your anxiety doesn't label every part of your life”. She would say. 

“Stay with me Mom I couldn’t live without you in my life”. I stated every day. 

Learning through my mistakes and how to separate myself from the anxiety; my friends aided my resolve to remind myself we are not defined by every part that makes up our body and mind. No matter what we get to choose who we identify as, even if it makes us different from those in our lives.