It’s easier to walk away, isn’t it? But it feels so wrong. The taste in my mouth isn’t quite rotten, but it isn’t fresh either. Metallic, off putting. It’s the word, maybe: Easier. A cop-out term in a world of try-hards and overachievers. Easy is for quitters, the cheaters, the lazy do-nothings who won’t achieve the aspiring.
Stay and fight your corner, says a defiant, proud voice in my head. Don’t cower away from the bullying, the nastiness. Stand up for yourself and lash out, strike back. This voice doesn’t have an issue with themselves, never doubts or disbelieved. It knows the truth and wishes to sing it loud.
And for those reasons, it’s why it stays in my head, rather than live in my mouth.
Anxiety is not a phrase or a tone. It’s not a voice. It’s an entire state of being. Thumping and sweating and racing along, a terrible conclusion met before the reasoning truth is laid out in mosaic. It’s status quo. Fallback on a bed of nettles. Stinging but familiar, all I’ve ever known. Walk away. Don’t engage. You can’t do anything about this. And besides, maybe they’re right. Maybe you are a terrible person, wrong, ill-informed. Maybe you deserve this.