It’s not cute when I get worked up and can’t function properly.
It’s not cute when my mind tells me I don’t deserve to eat because I’ve failed at some menial task.
It’s not cute when I scratch my arm, relishing the raw pulse of my tired, reddened flesh.
It’s not cute when I swerve the car, just a little, thinking about actions I would never consider doing.
It’s not cute when my heart beats up my throat and out of my mouth in desperate, uneasy chokes of breath.
It’s not cute when I sit on the floor in the kitchen, eyes focused on the small bumps in the linoleum tile
Or when I pace the living room back and forth, back and forth, arms tight against my chest, fat tears swelling my entire face.
It’s not cute when I feel my mind sprinting ahead of where I can catch it, beyond coherent thought, into the static haze of uncertain fears and nameless stressors.
Anxiety isn’t cute.
(Written 1 September 2015)