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My anxiety. I don't know where it came from, I don't know where it's going and I can't find a name for it. I can't find a reason for it. Other people have it too, but no one seems to name it and it isn't like it really matters anyway. It isn't as if I really matter anyway, it isn't like there really is a "me" anymore.

My anxiety is about "you." You can be any person, but "you" will most likely always be a person close to me. A friend, a relative... Or maybe I've only known you for two weeks. It doesn't matter. All there is is you and how you are and how I can make you and your life and you feel better.

Most days you will be my first thought when I wake up and my last thought when I go to bed. During the day I need to know: how are you, and if you aren't well I need to plan what I can do about it. If I don't know these things, or even if I do, it will well up. This horrible feeling in my stomach, the fear, the shortness of breath, the weakness in my hands, wrists and legs, the sense of restlessness, hopelessness and senselessness. My concention fails and it makes me stupid. In some situations this can make me dangerous to myself and others.

"I don't need to feel this way," I reason. "Everything will be fine. There are x reasons why you will be fine." But logic hasn't worked for me in a long, long time. So I try to make this easier for myself. I set myself little goals, watch the time, tell myself that in only two more hours I can check my messages, or talk to you. I think about where to check first, which would make the most sense, which way is the fastest, which is the most efficient to get to the nonexistent end. I do this all day, every day. Sometimes, with something else I really need to concentrate on, I might have a few hours of respite. But it's fake. It's only because my brain is too busy with something else and it happens less and less.

Me-time? I don't even really know what that is anymore. Even when I theoretically have it, I no longer enjoy it. The anxiety, that nagging feeling, the guilt that I'm not doing something for "you" is always there. There used to be things I enjoyed doing, places I enjoyed going, but that's over. I have to get back home, driven by the anxiety, driven by the feeling that I should be somewhere else, doing something for someone else. I used to be able to pinpoint it as a feeling of "I should not be enjoying myself. Someone else is suffering." It's not even that anymore. It's a compulsion.

But that doesn't really matter. "You're such a lovely, compassionate person," others say. "I CAN'T FUCKING HELP IT!" I want to yell in their face.

And then I feel guilty. I get angry that I can't catch a break and I feel guilty, I get the feeling that I don't want to do this anymore, and I feel guilty. I get the urge to tell everyone that I don't want to hear it and I feel guilty. And after all, even if I did all that, it wouldn't make me feel better. It would only make me feel worse. Guilty. And it's not that I don't want to help, or that I am annoyed by being compassionate, but where's the wall? Where's the wall that should be there? Where is that thing that separates "you" from me?

But really, it almost doesn't matter anymore. To my brain, it doesn't. To my insides, it doesn't. Something inside me knows that it should; that this is fucking up my life and my future and will eventually fuck up my relationships with the people around me.

Because that's the thing. Sure, I'm compassionate. I'm also clingy, jealous, insecure, angry, feel that I need everyone more than they need me, irrational...

And I'm tired, I'm so tired of it, but I'm never empty. Hell, empty might be a nice feeling for a change, but I don't know it. As I said, always there. The "I" in me is never alone anymore.

And does it matter? Other people have much bigger problems than me, so this little demon inside me tells me hat no, it doesn't. I'm well off in comparison to others. I have no reason to feel this way, so I shouldn't and it isn't valid. Other people have more reasons to say they have a problem...

And so, somehow, I get through every day. Sometimes I really have no idea how. From hour to hour, I guess. From sing of life to sign of life. From one moment of being able to breathe properly to the other, I guess.

And I can't say this to any one person. It's not fair on them. It's not their fault.

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