I feel like a child.
I feel like a child how I’m so easily reduced to a shaking body, sitting and crying on the bathroom floor, gasping for air and being absolutely terrified of everything.
I feel like a child how I have no control over my emotions. They completely take me over. Like a fever, all I can do is wait it out while feeling each scorching wave drag across my forehead, force itself down my throat and explode in my chest, as it screams at me, “You’re not good enough.” I hear it reverberate: “You failed.” “You always fail.” “Look how weak you are.”
I feel like a child how my knees are curled up to my forehead and I hold my head in my hands, like they can somehow hold everything together.
I feel like a child how I’m on the bathroom floor with the stall door locked. I’m only able to sob when I hear the bathroom door close behind someone leaving and I hold it in like I’m holding my breath when someone enters. My sorrow feels so public. Adults cry with dignity, locked in their bedrooms. No one ever knows. Because I chose to live nomadic, I’m not granted such privacy.
I feel like a child how fits of uncontrollable sadness can be triggered by someone who was once close to me, someone who I should not be allowing to still have such power over me to make me feel like this. As is the nature of my condition, all it takes is a few wrong words or ill actions from them. But they are only a trigger, only a trigger, thank goodness. All of my tears aren’t about them. They simply start my mental ball rolling down the list of everything else that’s wrong.
I feel like a child because my anxiety is social. I fear people and how they make me feel. I fear connecting with people. I wish I was afraid of heights or insects or the doctor’s office, something that makes more sense, something more concrete.
I feel like a child because I’m afraid of my lonliness.
I feel like a child because I’m wandering this world without really knowing what I’m doing.
GI feel like a child because I wrote more open than I intended. I don’t want anyone to know I feel like a child. But it’s a writer’s onus to be honest. It’s a writers responsibility to say how they really feel for the people who feel it, too, but can’t explain it or don’t know how.
I might feel like a child most of the time, but I know I am an adult because I only let these things stop me temporarily, not completely.