Lately I’ve been asking myself, what am I so scared of? Like usual, all of my normal excuses come to mind, but then I remember something that people have told me since I was in seventh grade.
The only thing to fear is fear itself.
Ah. So that’s what I’ve gotten stuck in my head.
Time and time again I will come up with a reason, usually a weak one, on why I don’t want to do something. A reason on why I am scared, but now I see, my reason is fear itself.
That is what anxiety is. It’s not being afraid of a particular thing, no, it’s being afraid that you will have fear for a particular thing. That you will be faced with such a situation that you couldn’t possibly handle: emotionally; physically.
The bogie man finds your fear to be the greatest to feast upon. He pitches a tent underneath your bed, sings a little song inside your head, and chases away a joyful dream- and plants a nightmare.
The planted nightmare is like a tree that grows taller and taller as your fears grow stronger and out of control. With each branch that grows is another phobia born. And with each leaf that blooms is another excuse to be afraid.
Each fear is another reason to be chained to the trunk: unmovable; unshakable. But on the inside all you’re -doing- is shaking. You are the most talented person you know at appearing strong and as sturdy as stone, except you can feel that day coming soon. That day where a hurricane’s wind and rain blow through your branches, and sway every leaf and fear you have. That day where you come home crying and you couldn’t possibly know why. So you lay in your sweet bed, your kingdom, as long as you can without being bothered. You lay there until you’ve summed up enough courage and strength to paint your face back as a stone.
But you know that it is only paint. That soon it will be washed away again by another hurricane. And you just pray to God, or whatever you believe in, that the next storm- doesn’t knock you down.