I don’t like to dwell on unpleasant things, though in this case, I must. I have anxiety, and it’s not something I try, overly hard, to hide. There are things that cause me to break down, and it’s a very uncomfortable feeling. These past few days have been particularly awful, in terms of my anxiety. I picked up running again, to attempt to get that rush that one receives after strenuous physical activity. Said rush is accompanied by a feeling of relief, a “I don’t have to worry” feeling, if you will. It helps, but it’s not helping as much as I had hoped.

I’ve found myself listening to music loudly, which is a clear sign of my depressive symptoms rearing their ugly heads at me once again. I sigh, a lot; even now. My frustration with myself is horribly obvious, and that is what I try to hide. A large smile, and self deprecating humour seems to do the job quite well. My brutal honesty, and lack of an online filter helps me write this post; such honesty will likely result in some type of regret sooner or later, but for now I’m not too worried.

Why have you come here seeking solace, Victoria? Writing helps me process thoughts and words. I edit my feelings, and remove unwanted content. Short and concise is what I am. I despise feeling unsure, or insecure. I know my value, yet I have extreme anxiety about people being cross with me. I suppose all of this is a result of my PTSD.

There is no safety in this, and it terrifies me. Everything could fall to pieces, and I would be destroyed. I try so hard to protect myself from disappointment and pain, but when I trust another, and my heart is in their hands, I feel completely petrified with fear. I give them a glass heart, with many cracks already, and ask them to handle it with care. Lovely, what if you drop it? What will become of me?