Follow Your Passion.
The International Youth Journal offers talented youths, journalists, and experts the unique opportunity to publish and read interesting articles on many topics on an international level: Publish My Article
Become Official Youth Journalists and report exciting stories from around the world.
My Anxiety and I
12. July 2018 at 17:25
No, no, no, no, you have it all wrong. You twisted the whole and branched to a rather sharp exit. My horoscope forbids me to explain myself after I spell out all the necessary preambles like a good old quizmaster. Too bad there was no hint of coffee in the air- it would have jerked your mind to the words I spoke. Or to the countless gestures I howled and hiked, hoping you'll dig the signals and save me from myself.
The shaky notes on the call, the throbbing hearts and whispering pines of prayers, the loose greetings, the smirk of a smile, they are all side effects. I have a touch of Anxiety. 'Breathe Chris, breathe... The earth is still round. We all bleed red. You got this. God's got your back!' my words of calm. I have it as a reminder on my phone and a gospel in my mouth. A gospel only I can have.

The phone buzzes steadily. My heart races greedily; takes to its heeless heels. Whether a 100 meter dash or a hurdle, it cares less. An adrenaline rush sets in, I scuttle across to reach for the call. 'Is it a friendly or an unknown or a known but we-don't-usually-talk fellow?' oodles of smoky questions talk my head off. I smell a gas leakage. My 'Hello' bounces off the zinc roof top, makes an annoying dance and sticks out its tongue while looking into my face. I'm dead meat! "Hey Chris" the caller says. She's a friendly. Whew, shame on me. "Shame on you" my anxiety bangs. But I just said that to myself already, old sport! Jeez, he's so pesky. 'I think she likes you, you know?' he goes on and on and , taking note of her tone, her lines and the tags between them. For him, everyone likes me- the ladies I mean. For him, everything has to do with me. Left to him, the world revolved around me and I can't afford to blow my cool.

Two steps two, step one, two steps three, I keep guard with my walking shoes, my cool. Trousers on with belt held loose, feet the shoes and buckle the laces- if any. Shirt on, melted into trousers, buttoned. Watch- check, hair- check, breath- check. Check, check, check, the sequence never changes. My cool. Maybe I said too much, maybe not- their faces don't give an inkling. Need to say something, the silence is choky. It's too quiet. The ticks of my watch pulsing through sixties of the seconds on my wrist, might be heard in the mute. 'No need to say something when there's nothing to say. Just be at ease' he advices. She's too close, she might hear me breathe. What if it's too loud? Hope the Rexona deodorant works. The hug is tight, I think am freaking out right about now. My mind becomes mindless, churns little to more and more to little, it's miscalculated. Exaggerates the details and chimes an emergency- my blood boils, I think I'm gonna throw up. My anxiety bleeds red and leaves me blue, I am colourblind.

How come my mind is more alive than my body? Let's switch sides then- God wouldn't mind. Jog my anxiety and press up my mind, for they keep me captive. Maybe. I am scared. On this stage, I am scared of betraying myself. I am scared I won't turn out to be what they expected. I am scared I might break my protocol and hit my leg on a stone then miscount my steps this time. I am scared I might not pen a better piece after this, I am scared I might be too scared to be scared, too bleeded to bleed. Way too rusty, to rust. "Breathe Chris, breathe... The earth is still round. We all bleed red.." So when I speak a few and hold my peace, know that I never meant to be speechless. When I take a walk far from the world and never call, know that I don't mean to be lonely. Even when I don't turn up to be as perfect as you thought, or as strong, just know that I have no plans of perfection myself. The battle is endless, everyone is clueless but me. The signs I erect and the symptoms I spill, carry gists of fists and bloody knuckles.

"How are you?" She asked, my anxiety then pats me on the back and brights a smile. I looked through my archives of worries and wammies, checked my drawer of anti-anxiety medications, rummaged through the cracks within my heart and.... "I am holding up fine" I replied. Yes, I am fine. The score lines don't tell the same story, but I am fine.
My 'Hello' may be misplaced, making fun of my weaknesses, but I am fine. I may not have the best of first impressions, or second, or third even, but I am fine. I am fine today, I am fine tomorrow. I am fine for all fine can and will ever be, for this heart still pounds; rounds of tens of thousands in the sixties of the seconds, and in the twelves of years. Each pulse, a hope amidst the ruins.

We have learned to live, my anxiety and I. He is the longest relationship I've had, same age too. He does have issues, trust issues and all but.. he's honest. Isn't that more than most of us get?
Cite This Article As: Christopher Tawiah-mensah. "My Anxiety and I." International Youth Journal, 12. July 2018.

Link To Article:

Submit Your Article Subscribe for Free Login or Register Become Journalist
About IYJ
Submit Your Article
Become Youth Journalist
Awards and Competitions
For Teachers and Schools
Materials and Documents
Authors and Journalists
Search Article Archive
Quaterly Paper Volumes
Facebook Page
Author Login
Contact Form
FAQ Page
Data Policy

International Youth Journal