“I just don’t trust any of it. Every time I read something about how there’s been another ridiculous climb of the Dow Jones, there’s a part of me that goes, “This can’t be good.” None of this is real money. You know what I mean? It’s not like there’s actually more of anything. It’s just ideas. When people are getting richer and richer but they’re not actually producing anything, it can’t end well.”
– Louis C.K.
I don’t know what it’s feels like to actually feel raw emotion anymore. Reading through posts on “Gives Me Hope,” I’ve come to realize that I was that friend for everyone who offered to do the saving, but no one ever wanted to save me.
My anxiety doesn’t like the light. Or shirts. Only sports bras. Don’t even think about tight clothes, my anxiety says i’m way too fat for those anymore. My anxiety says i’ll never be thin enough, and it always happens to point out my flaws, or my short comings. My anxiety says that it’s always right and I have to do as it says.
I’ve come to found that people crave attention and admiration from those around them. As if this wasn’t obvious already, I’ve been used to create the “best versions of themselves” that an image can capture. As a photographer, it’s comforting knowing that the photo you take of a person can bring them so much confidence – whether measured later by likes and comments, it doesn’t matter to that person. For a while – maybe a minute, maybe a longer period of time, they feel attractive, beautiful. Now all thoughts aside, I fall into a rut considering I too long for these types of images of myself. No one can take them for me, because I’m the one who takes these. I’m stuck. I want to feel beautiful, and want to be admired. I feel inadequate on a constant basis.
This is too perfect to skip over.
One week during the summer I was twelve, I had a crisis.
I ran out of library books.
Sure I rode my bike, went swimming with friends, and listened to music trying to figure out what the lyrics meant but I also indulged in hours of reading every day. Books transported me. My mother would call me to dinner and I’d look up, astonished to find I wasn’t a wolf on the tundra but a girl in shorts lying on the carpet. Or someone would knock on the bathroom door and I’d remember that I was soaking in the tub, not eluding soldiers in a medieval battle.
My parents supported reading, but they had no problem saying “get your nose out of that book and go outside.” They didn’t take us to the library more than two or three times a month, so the stack of books each of us…
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Discovery #3457 – You can’t use a treadmill to outrun your problems.
This anxiety is going to kill me from the inside out. It immobilizes and suffocates me as it takes over every inch of thought in my mind. I want to – need to – silence it, but I don’t know how. I have no desire to eat. I’m obsessed with getting exercise. I don’t know how to handle this, because I think it’s handling me.
Sometimes when I listen to certain songs, it feels like I’m in a movie with the credits rolling. Acoustic chords strumming, an indie sounding voice chiming in – maybe Florence and the Machine or Bon Iver, I feel like there should be a camera about to pan in on me typing this. It’s the part in the movie where the main character comes to a conclusion about something; not that i’m concluding anything – i’m actually in the completely opposite situation really. But I feel inspired, and that’s something to grasp while you can.
“Daily Prompt: Captive’s Choice
You’ve been kidnapped and given a choice: would you rather be stranded on an island, dropped into an unknown forest, or locked in a strange building?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us CHOICE.”
My kidnapper has locked me in a strange building. I feel the walls for texture, do I recognize the stones? There is a familiar aroma, why is it so comforting to me? The hallways are flooded with light that shines in through the room at the end of the hall. There are doors on either side to me; unmarked. Each time I attempt to open a door I’m struck with a visual that makes no sense to me. It’s as if my brain knows but won’t tell me. I’ve seen this all before. Where have I seen this all before. Why is there no one else in this building? Why do I feel so lost but so at home? There are photos of people on the walls – no other objects. I feel a pang of guilt when I see one of a boy. I feel anger when I see another of a women who seems to resemble me in some way. There are more emotions attached to each of the people I don’t believe I know. I feel as empty as the building I’m locked in. Could it be that I’m my own kidnapper – and that this building I find myself trapped in, is actually the inside of my own mind?
I have to begin to question that choices and thoughts that seem to crawl their way into my mind. Anxiety is my long-lost best worst friend. It seems as though it has set itself back into permanent residence within my chest. Relapse feels just around the corner and I’m not sure how to approach that. Why am I even considering this again as an outlet? I’m aware of the consequences – the repercussions. Nothing good or permanent comes from it apart from the scars. And the judgment. It tempts me in the worst way. My mind tells me that I need to be punished for what I did.