This poem tries to put into words the seemingly invisible struggles of those battling an anxiety disorder. I write this, thinking about a close friend, with whom I would have weekly check ins once we moved to different cities. In wildly different walks of life, professionally, we both were united in our experience of being human and feeling things too much at times.
I wake up each day, thinking this time it would be different
That this time, for once, I wouldn’t have my mid-week meltdown
That I wouldn’t call in sick when really, it’s my mind that’s ailing
That it isn’t the flu, it’s my anxiety
That this is not a disease, but a disorder
Which orders me into this cycle of hiding, fighting and failing
Falling flat on my face and dignity
On the pillow, muffling my sobs
Each time I stay in, give in and sleep it off
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Access HelpBut then, there are small victories
Strewn apart, like wildflowers on dank crevices
Maybe this time it wouldn’t be so different
Maybe I would still have my midweek-meltdown
Maybe this time it would be different, but just a little
And that’s okay, for now
Recovery is not a race, lapses are not relapse
Your life wouldn’t start afresh
But it wouldn’t end this way either
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