My anxiety is like a…
Bull. Some days, I ride the bull flawlessly, like some Western bull-riding celebrity I’ll never be able to name because bull-riding celebrities don’t become famous in Buffalo, N.Y. I grip on, face every challenge like an expert and even find enjoyable exhilaration in the journey. That can’t be what riding a bull is like most of the time, though, and neither is that what anxiety is usually like for me. I grip on for dear life, try to stay alive as each buck threatens to throw me off. Sometimes, I fall off. And I get back on, and I get bucked off. In fact, it feels like that many days. I succumb to the anxious feelings, let go of the reins, then wake up and get back on again.
Stomach acid. When there isn’t much to feed my anxiety, when I’m not busy enough to keep it entertained and equally diversified, it starts to eat away at me. It finds problems in things that don’t have (or have to be) problems. It exacerbates small problems into large, consuming ones that infiltrate each of my other thoughts.
Piece of me that I need to come to terms with and wrangle daily, forever.