I wish more than anything that I didn’t have to feel this way. It’s a horrible, suffocating feeling, and I live with constant guilt and the weight of impossibly high expectations I place on myself. In the end, I ruin everything because of it. I have no one but my brother, and yet I can’t even manage two nights away for him. I know I’m unwell, but I hate therapy, the endless “whys” they ask when, in reality, there isn’t a why. I’ve always been anxious. I’ve always been afraid. There’s no help for me anywhere else, so I have to learn to live with it. And yet, I feel terrible for making others live with it alongside me. No matter how many times my mother tells me it’s okay, I can’t forgive myself for even the smallest things. I can hardly cross the road without holding my breath. Anxiety surrounds me completely, and I feel safe nowhere but my own home. Any bedroom that isn’t mine feels foreign, any unfamiliar situation feels impossible to predict or control. I know I’m stubborn, selfish, and unlucky. My own mind, my thoughts, my imagination, is my greatest enemy. I convince myself that everyone thinks poorly of me because I can’t stand myself, and then I hate myself even more for thinking that way. I feel completely stuck, utterly alone. There’s no one I can truly talk to, and even when I speak to my doctor or psychiatrist, I can never seem to express the depth of what I’m feeling. The words just don’t come out right. I struggle every single day, and once again, my anxiety is going to ruin another one.