“Into Existence” Fiction. Based on a True Experience with Crippling Anxiety.

“It can be as simple as just having a little corner in your room where you have a light and a book like the Neverending Story that brings you to where you can feel okay, and maybe use that as a jumping board for some new ideas and write some stuff.” –HOTTMT

“Into Existence”

Fiction. Based on a True Experience with Crippling Anxiety.

By C.M. Fix

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional

You have swallowed and digested a questionable amount of bitter, crippling self doubt. The sort that inflames all it touches, insides becoming accustomed to the frequent encounter. The cancerous self-doubt begins as a seed only to latch its roots to anything it can cling itself too.

And it’s quite ironic because an outsider would deem that you are free to move about and do and dance and sing and play and cry and joke as you please.

You sit and stare out windows instead. So, you try your hand at biting your nails. You get down to the nitty gritty, just to where the nail can no longer lift up and it starts to hurt. You tear back the hang nails and skin surrounding it and it starts to bleed. You put your finger to your mouth and taste the seeping metallic liquid forming in the creases. All that you touch sends a sensation up the length of your finger. You work at your hair next, rubbing your sweaty fingers through as if in a lame attempt to try to detangle it. Clumps form in your hands and you grow embarrassed at what you will have to blatantly dispose upon the tile. Maybe a drag will help. You light up your cigarette with your sweaty fingers– inhale… exhale. It is as if you are doing your own version of meditation. You walk inside, sit and repeat.

Your nerves shoot impulses to others they have no business to be in communication with. They move quick, bouncing, jolting as if on some escapade, but, in the flesh, you are completely still. This then forces you to twiddle your toes up down up down up down inside of your shoes that are also greased with a seeping perspiration. 

Thirty minutes have gone by. 

You sit and stare out the bay window, looking out at the unrecognizable faces who move past you. Some trudge, some glide, some sit and stare too. The most depressing part is that before you even begin you seem to have already lost.

But, when the mind wants to break its link with the world, it still holds on to one thing. What is that thing?

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