Damn anxiety…
It’s ironic, isn’t it? The one place that’s supposed to help me feel better is the thing making my chest tight and my stomach twist. I keep replaying everything in my head — what I’ll say, what I won’t say, what I should probably say but don’t know if I’m strong enough to.
Therapy means ripping open things I work so hard to keep neatly folded and tucked away. It means saying the quiet parts out loud. It means admitting that some days I’m not as “okay” as I pretend to be.
There’s this fear that if I start talking, I won’t be able to stop. That the grief, the anger, the old memories, the shame — all of it — will spill out and I’ll just sit there exposed and shaking. And what if I’m too much? What if I’m still broken in ways that can’t be fixed?
I know therapy is supposed to be safe. I know healing doesn’t happen by avoiding the hard things. But tonight it just feels heavy. I feel small. Tired. Scared of my own mind.
I’ll probably go. I always do.
I just wish it didn’t feel like walking into a storm every single time.
Therapy means ripping open things I work so hard to keep neatly folded and tucked away. It means saying the quiet parts out loud. It means admitting that some days I’m not as “okay” as I pretend to be.
There’s this fear that if I start talking, I won’t be able to stop. That the grief, the anger, the old memories, the shame — all of it — will spill out and I’ll just sit there exposed and shaking. And what if I’m too much? What if I’m still broken in ways that can’t be fixed?
I know therapy is supposed to be safe. I know healing doesn’t happen by avoiding the hard things. But tonight it just feels heavy. I feel small. Tired. Scared of my own mind.
I’ll probably go. I always do.
I just wish it didn’t feel like walking into a storm every single time.
100+, F
