A tale of a cynical brain
There’s a voice that breathes down my throat.
It’s mysterious and very deep.
It snickers, growls and croaks. It will do anything to keep me in control.
It obscures rational thoughts and tempts me to search for things, beyond what I'm not.
“You should cut yourself off from everywhere, no one will notice you were gone,” it once said.
It convinced me that it scolds me only because it loves me, and that the constant criticism is only because it loves me.
I try to fight it, it does not budge. It does not go away. I promise you I’ve tried very hard.
It screams when I am happy, it asks me to shut up when I laugh.
It mandates that I should call off plans because no one really wants to hang out with me.
It scoffs when she hugs me, tells me she loves me not.
It tells me that all of life is a surreal dream and everyone’s empathy is the part of my brain that writes hyperbole and imagery because: no one really cares.
It reprimands me when I get angry but scares me when I beg for help.
It cheers me on when I huddle up in that corner of my bed because that’s where I belong. Away from people and away from civilisation.
It makes us survive on tiny shots of dopamine, served to me when I check the boxes off my to-do list.
This voice is none other than the song of High Functioning Anxiety. Oh, the things it compels me to achieve. Oh, the ranks I am forced to achieve.
Nothing’s ever good enough if I am not good at everything, it demands.
It does not allow me to speak of it but I must.
It does not want me to call it out but I will.
I will shout right back at it because it slays thousands of teens like me silently. It claims lives and sometimes takes them.
Author: Vedant Vaswani