Today I was feeling anxious and grabbed my journal and my favourite pen and the passage below is what flowed out of me. I’m sure that the words and the questions will tumble around in my mind for some time, but for right now I have more questions than answers. But at least I feel slightly less anxious after getting it onto paper. 


I feel messy around the edges. Anxiety. It’s that thing that feels like my insides are jumping – and like my outsides want to claw at my skin.

As if I could release this inner jumbled energy if I could just open up my flesh – I could get this weird sensation out of me.

And I’m running inside but on the outside I am still. And if you looked at me you wouldn’t know that I feel as though I am going to implode.

You wouldn’t know that there’s some kind of demon screaming inside of me. And there are so many screams happening all at once. And so many feelings happening too.

All I can do is run from me. From all these parts of me that want to pin me down and force themselves into me.

And maybe they’re not all parts of me, but experiences of times when I’ve lacked safety. When I’ve been used. When I haven’t been seen.

And sometimes it is me – when I look in the mirror and my eyes are sunken and empty and the fire that once blazed with righteous indignation has been extinguished by cynical disbelief.

And sometimes I can’t even look at me.

Have love and punishment become somehow married together in my psyche?

And doesn’t it make perfect sense that I’m either running or I’m hiding?

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