My Anxiety is an Ocean
My anxiety is an ocean.
There is high tide, and there is low tide.
When the tide is low, the ocean is still churning. It is still full of fears and expectations and nerve endings and pain, but it is further from the surface. I can walk along more of the beach without getting sucked in.
When the tide is high, the ocean is harder to ignore. It is an ever-present body that reminds me of those same worries and wounds as it laps at my ankles and begs me to step further in, just for a minute. Only a minute.
When the tide is low, I am better able to stand. I am more capable of standing up straight, looking out at the endless horizon and feeling both small and big at once. When the tide is low, I am not fearless, but I seem to have just a little more courage.
When the tide is high, I can’t simply walk past. I have to watch. I observe its comings and goings, its rips and pulls and eddies. At times, the tide comes in so quickly that I trick myself into bravery. I let myself believe I can keep my courage as I step into the water, just for a minute. Only a minute.
Too easily, that minute becomes an hour, becomes a day, becomes a week of swirling, consuming, maddening wet that seeps so far into my skin, I forget what my once-discovered bravery ever felt like.
