So this year I’ve just finished my first year of Uni. My major which I’m studying is Creative Writing. Over this last term we’ve been asked to create a ‘Chapbook’ with a theme – mine being emotions.
Usually we view emotions as they are, because aren’t they, what they are? But some-times happiness can be more than just smiles and or excitement, and sadness can be deeper than depression or weakness. I hope to show that each emotion I write about has a different perspective, one that you maybe haven’t considered before to give a deeper meaning behind its purpose.
This is Anxiety in a form I’d like to express to you:
I feel myself slipping away.
You know that feeling you get, when you’re holding something heavy and it all just becomes too much to handle? When your hands become sticky and wet, and your fingers begin to peel off, one by one, until you feel like you’re holding on with your frail ring finger, the weakest of them all. It seems like the easiest thing is to just give up completely because sometimes it can all be too hard. That’s how I feel with myself. But this time, I’m not a heavy box that’s being carried upstairs into the living room. I’m me. But I’m not even that much anymore, because I no longer know who I, exactly, am.
It started at the back of my mind. I tried to push it back, to suppress it, and pretend it didn’t exist. I tried to focus on other things. But the harder I tried to push it out of my memory and into a world of imagination, the harder it pushed me back. I felt it crawl down the nape of my neck, to my spine, slowly making its way down, an icy sensation that sent shivers which strike deep into my throbbing heart, right to the tips of my toes. It’s this ever-present feeling which no longer seems to leave my body, and my mind. It’s no longer a simple thought of my imagination.
It’s there.
It’s real.
I can feel it running through my veins and fluttering inside of my core.
It’s taking over me.
The other day I looked in the mirror for the first time in months, and it’s like I didn’t even know the girl who was looking back at me, my own reflection. I picked at my pores, trying to scratch off the false pretence, to dig underneath the surface of who I used to be, the person that I remember. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find her. I was losing myself. My thick blood burst through my pale skin each time I picked at my insecurities, leaving even darker scars. It’s like I suddenly woke up one morning, a stranger.
The sound of heavy raindrops tapping against my window pane won’t cease to echo in my mind. But as I open the curtain to the garden outside, not a cloud in the sky can be seen. Is this too, a fragment of my imagination, or am I slowly turning insane? Although I close the curtain shut so that darkness fills my bedroom, I can still hear the tapping of the raindrops, but this time it’s not coming from outside, but, deep within. My heart is beating louder and faster than clockwork. My ticking, trembling hands are no longer in sync with my mind. Time, something I’ve always had a lot of, seems to be running low lately, unknowing when my time is up. The long hand constantly moves from the small, and I am the ticking second, forever chasing after hours I can’t get back. If only I could take it back to a clockmaker and get it fixed, back to normal.
If only.
I’m facing a constant battle of barely holding on and barely letting go. I’m stuck at crossroads, unknowing what to do. Although I’m slipping away, I’m scared of what will happen when I let go of the handlebar completely. Will I be unable to steer myself in the right direction?
If I let go, will I have any control? Or will fear takeover completely as I slip away.
Because when you tear off the tape, and lift open the folds of the box, I’m not some shiny new TV that comes with a remote – to mute me when you’re bored with what I have to say. When you open me, I’m scared of what you’ll think and what you’ll see, and if you too, want to let go of me.
Claudia Meg Bailey 