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Dear Anxiety

Dear Anxiety,

The last time we talked you droned on and on about the beauty of black.  Like the wearing of tight fitting pants that appear to make one slimmer, this blackness is supposed to shield me from the outside world.  But isn’t it true that for all your sleek postures, you are an insidious threat to my comfort.  The way you elevate the few things that I enjoy in life and turn them into shields against the tough edges of life makes me ill.  Yet, what would I do without you to coat my insecurity with false hope?

The unknowingness of life zaps the confidence I have in relationships at times.  One husband, one father dies in a gruesome wreck, what will happen next?  Will many die upon that same road?  The shock of feeling unable to help but feeling overwhelmed at the pain is raw and acute.  Yet, what am I to do with the razor sharp anxiousness of the unknowing next?  A spiritual pill, a modicum of faith, will this do the trick and turn the page on hurt street?

Whether the hurts release into the thick air or stay just a little long as a young mother takes her child to kindergarten waiting for his safe arrival, anxiety you are here by my side.  But I guess the extraordinary thing about you, O baron of exhaustion, is that you have a way of heightening my craziness in times of insignificance but remain aloof in the nitty gritty moments of life and death.  Yes, it will be alright, God, for your little one right in my midst to not always raise her tone at the end of a question. 

At the precipice of despair, anxiety produces both an insulating and maniacal verse in my life.  I don’t wish for this on anyone, but I believe at times anxiousness helps us realize that we are not dealing with life as it is.  Maybe, just maybe, this truth points us back to hope. 


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