There’s a monster under my bed and she’s raging to come out. Kicking and screaming, twisting the bed springs up through my mattress so that they leave tiny holes in my back. There she leaves me — drained, weak, emotionally unstable. Vulnerable. Broken. And scared.

That chick named Anxiety. She’s been suffocating me for far too long.

The loud screech of her nails against the top of my spine stops me in the middle of my tracks, breaking my concentration and focus. It is in those moments — the times that I feel the most confident — that she consumes me. Sweat drips from my armpits and soaks the underarms of my favorite shirts. My heart beats uncontrollably and my words start to slur.

And she loves to distract me, particularly when I’m supposed to be busy at work. She bites her bottom lip and bats her eyelashes, grabbing my attention while time flirtatiously dwindles away. There she leaves me — unproductive and flat.

That chick Anxiety. She’s viscious, a frenemy in disguise.

Sparkle, sparkle — she smiles coyly at me in the middle of the masquerade ball.

Clink, clink, clink, clink. Cheers, motherfucker. Cheers.

She’s bringing the roof down. I can see my whole life caving in on me.

I’ve been trying to suppress her. Ever since I realized that she’s a classless hoe that will stealthily lead me into life’s uncharted waters and abandon me as soon as the seas get rough. She watches me drown in my own misery. Cackaling mercilessly from the safety of some shore vaguely etched, imagined, unreal.

Anxiety will do that to you. It will break your calm and shatter your confidence — make you wonder about everyone else and everything else but you. It’ll push you to do better, to want to be your best. And it will never let you rest or be content at where you are. It makes you a slave to yourself, unable to take one step forward because you feel like you are always ten steps behind.

I have been rolling the same rock up a hill for 10 long years and I am still no Hercules.

Anxiety has made me an insomniac. But I’m not thirsting for sleep — I want room to breathe. A place where imperfections are okay and mistakes can be made without them replaying over and over in my mind like a broken record. A place where the only thing that keeps me is the acknowledgement of my effort not what or who I “coulda shoulda been”. Anxiety has held me hostage, suspended me in limbo. She buckles my knees and pulls at my teeth. My eyes dart back and forth. I’m locked mentally in a jail cell.

And that damn chick threw away the key. This cell block is obviously not big enough for the both of us.

She makes me constantly worry about everything and doubt myself. She keeps me from achieving me. From being my best.

She is the plight of a perfectionist. Nothing is ever good enough.

She’s got a friend named fear that hangs out with her a lot too. And from time to time, they like to stretch my arms out between them and spin me around and play double dutch with my limbs. They make me exhausted. They creep up on me. And then they leave me dead.

There’s a monster under my bed and she’s raging to get out.

But last night I chained her to the posts and muzzled her mouth. No more doubting voices. No more questioning bullshit. No more “how stupid”, “oh no”, and “you can’t” seeping through my bloodstream. I won’t let anxiety keep me from living my life. I won’t let that bitch breathe!

I left the Xanax prescription unfilled by my nightstand. Dr. Curtis, I won’t be needing it anymore.

I told you Dr. Curtis I won’t be needing it anymore….

Liane