Anxiety is a regular feature in my life in the way that breakfast or the daily train ride to school is, except a lot more frustrating, which gives me anxiety about my anxiety. It starts with the decision not to tell a friend how mad I am and letting that anger grow inside me until I take it out on myself, or overanalyzing the way my hands move when I am talking or the sound of my voice. It rests on my brain like a stone, pressing down every time I move.
Besides that, right now I have a nice existence. I think about what summer will feel like. I think about what it will be like to be 15 (and, for once, I can think of my birthday without becoming anxious about age and getting older), what life without school will be like. I write more. I don’t feel like a waste of space. ♦