Anxiety.

It always starts the same: with a thought.  A singular entity whose stark silhouette stands coldly against a black background waiting for me to acknowledge it.  I do.  I tell myself that it's there, that one thought, standing there staring at me.  Do something, it says.  Just fucking do something.  

I do.  Against my will, I do what I can to quell this thought, this monster that is still standing there, waiting.  For what, I'm not sure.  But I have to figure it out, I have to have the answer for it or it will keep staring at me, waiting.  Waiting for an answer I don't have.  It will glare at me with disdainfully sharp eyes and mock me, tell me how inadequate I am.

You are nothing, it will say.

My actions will become more panicked, more urgent.  I need an answer.  Need one.  My stomach is starting to hurt, my body is beginning to sweat like an onion in a steamer.  

I just need it to go away, anything to make it go away.  But I know by this point that there is no answer.  I don't have the answer at the moment.  So I turn on the T.V., trying to get the entity to calm itself, for now it is cursing at me, clawing at my insides.

The T.V. is nothing but a drone and a blur of muted colors.  I turn some music on and sing along.  But my stomach hurts and I feel too out of breath to continue.  The entity is now sitting on my chest. I never knew that a thought could make it hard to breathe.

The only way to make it stop is to purge myself, to cry, to throw things, to thrash about, to flail my arms in the air until I become to exhausted to even remember that the entity is still sitting there waiting.

When I wake it is gone.  But only for a time.

Addiction

First of all, if anyone takes this piece of writing and calls it their own (PLAGIARISM), I will report you (because it IS against the law) and then strangle your mother while she sleeps.

I wrote this piece for my English class last semester and though it's not the most insightful pieces I've ever done, it was really personal for me to write.  At this point, keeping such a colloquial piece locked away does nothing for me psychologically, so I figure I could pretend it's just a good story someone wants to read.  Anyways...too much talking.  Comments are welcomed.

Addiction

      For once in my life, I had to stand up and say something. Anything. As long as it put more food in the refrigerator when I got home from school, it was worth it. I was still in seventh grade at the time when I came home and opened the fridge to find a six pack of Bud Light, a ketchup bottle and a can of tuna. Pancakes again, I thought reluctantly. So, I grabbed the box of pancake batter and started the daily post-school routine. That day had been particularly trying. My progress report had come in the mail and without further thought, I opened it. An “F” in every single class except P.E. By that time I was used to it, but something deep down really struck me. I wasn't stupid, I knew that. In fact, I considered myself to be incredibly intelligent, but I couldn't prove it. How could I prove something I didn't care much about? As far as I was concerned, I was worthless. Every day in class I wrote in my journal, completely ignoring the teacher's lectures. I wrote and wrote and wrote until the callus on my ring finger had become a small bulbous reminder of my stupidity. You're fucking retarded Gabs, I wrote on one page. Why can't you just put down the goddamn journal and try to get some good grades, you stupid fuck? No wonder nobody likes you. No one wants to come to your house because your mother's an alcoholic lunatic. Usually I didn't write much stuff like that, but every once in a while the beast came out. That's what I called it. “The beast”. It was the side of me that I repressed most of the time, the side of me that wanted to physically hurt somebody just so I knew someone else was hurting too.
       

     After making my pancakes, I locked myself in my dark room and sat on the bed, journal open in front of me. I stuffed a syrupy piece into my mouth. The taste had become bitter at this point because I ate pancakes so often. The same bitter taste, the same dismal room, the same dusty air, the same darkness I felt every day coming home to that dingy apartment suddenly hit me all at once. I felt the beast boiling to the surface and this time I did absolutely nothing to keep her strapped down. I threw the plate of pancakes at the wall with an animalistic growl, watching the plate break into large pieces. “Fuck you Mom,” I yelled. I ran into the kitchen and swung open the refrigerator, the complete purity of my anger and hate dizzying me. I glared at the bottles of yellow liquid, studied the little bubbles that gathered on the side of the glass. It was poison and I had to get rid of it. “Okay God,” I said. “You want me to prove something? How about this?” I grabbed one of the bottles and threw it against the living room wall. It exploded in a shower of liquid and glass, landing on the cushions of our couch.  Pure satisfaction welled through me and I grimaced. I hadn't felt real satisfaction in so long. No way was I stopping there. I threw another and another cursing God, cursing my mom cursing, cursing my dad until my throat was raw. Up until the last bottle, I had screamed every curse word I knew. The twelfth bottle of poison shattered and landed on the couch with the pile of dull brown glass.
 

     I collapsed on the floor in tears. So overwrought with satisfaction and grief at once, I lay down on the kitchen floor and let the tears I kept so hidden reveal themselves. It was like coming down from a high, a high that was too personal for any one else to experience. I don't remember how long I lay there, but eventually I got up went out to the patio and sat in my mom's chair. The chair she always sat in when she drank. For an hour I sat dazed, not really thinking in a linear manner, but rather subconsciously seeing images of the happiest moments of my life. Seeing my parents hold hands, seeing my brother laughing real pure laughter, and seeing myself playing outside with my friends. Everything I no longer had. But I realized at the end of my revelation that it would be okay. I always knew it would be okay. All that needed to happen was what I had just done. I had to break through the wall. “Break on through to the other side,” I sang aloud, laughing at the fact The Doors aided me in my realization. Then I stopped laughing and sat in silence, waiting patiently for my mother to come home. She was finally going to come home.