Listen, I'll tell you all something right now, anxiety is a bitch.
Like I've just had it all day, do I know why? Nope.
I just want to go out and have a good time but also going out might make it worse and then I'll be in public breaking down instead of here breaking down and like, who knows?
So I'm going to talk about it, anxiety. Literally every time I tell my father about it he tells me I should write about it, so here you go dad. I'm going to try to abstract it enough that writing about it doesn't worsen it. So here you go, a completely off the cuff short story about it. Also this will probably have a lot of swearing, so sorry.
Bailey lived, as most young men do, in a home with his family, and while family is a fluid word that can mean any conglomeration of people who love each other, this one was fairly traditional, at least in definition. He had a mom and a dad. A younger sister, a younger brother. And They loved him, and he they, though he was pretty bad at showing it at times. It was hard to be a 17 year old. It was hard to be the oldest, as the oldest Bailey felt a lot of pressure to not be a fuck up. Despite his best efforts, he still felt like it. It was weird, to be the oldest and be compared to the youngest, popular media had led him to believe that everyone would compare them to him, but he felt the opposite, now granted he had a biased viewpoint, but it didn't make it any less how he felt. The pressure grew to anxiety as he grew older. Most of his fears and thoughts grew into anxieties, so much of him became anxiety it felt like another person, a dark reflection of Bailey. Like in Scott Pilgrim, there were two Baileys, The idealized one Bailey aspired to be, the goofy, well-meaning kid who was a bit of a self-destructive moron but he did it with the best intentions so it was alright. Or the demonized Bailey, the angry, scared, anxious one who would destruct on purpose because he felt like that was his destiny. He tried to outrun it, he tried to outrun his fears, but the dark Bailey would follow him, and no matter how hard he fought, Bailey, the real one, the one foreign only to himself, he would slip up, and the dark Bailey would attack. His muscles would tense, his breathing would quicken, his vision would go blurry, he might become dizzy, he would only know how to scream. It wasn't an enemy he could fight, only one that made him want to die. Maybe not die forever. But hit reset, to hard-reboot, no Terminator Genesis shit. And just be fresh, the attacks made existence unbearable. It was overwhelming, pure sensory overload. It made him angry, it made him cry, it made him scream. He understood the Hulk, he understood the alcoholic. Because it was this irrational monster who once he recovered would have to clean up the shit he had created in his anger, in his fear.
The problem that existed was that as Bailey grew stronger, so did the Dark Bailey. As they were the same person, despite the abstraction, despite the lines he tried to blur, the anxiety was still Bailey, maybe it was a shadow, a symptom of existing, but it was still a part of Bailey. The problem was that the Dark Bailey didn't rely on food or sleep to survive. It prayed on Bailey when he missed those things. It prayed on Bailey when he needed it least. On stage, in audition, in front of a class, maybe from too much interaction, maybe from too little. Dark Bailey was nothing if not resourceful. Because he would find a chink in the armor, and like dark water in a submarine, it would leak in, until the whole thing caved in on itself and imploded.
No one could see Dark Bailey, no one but Bailey. He could feel his approach. He could feel the apathy seep in. He could feel his shoulders tense. Is chest would tighten. The world became too loud. Bailey became quick to snap. More volatile, more quick on the draw. Less held back. It was hard for Bailey to talk to people about Dark Bailey, he didn't want to worry them. He didn't want their alienation, more so than he caused it. He couldn't always fight it. He couldn't always predict it. He couldn't always shrug it off, or get over it. Sometimes all he could do was cry and scream. Sometimes he could beat it. He'd find an activity to release the pressure, but there was no reliable one. Sometimes even the most reliable tricks failed and only made it worse. Even writing became a chore, and he only did it because it was pathetic to give up 4 days into his 25 day streak.
He was told that it was a symptom of growing up, that it would pass. He was told that it'd pass. He was told that it'd get better. He wanted to believe it, more than anything, but it was hard, truly hard. This was all he could remember, was anxiety. He didn't remember a time before it. There might have been, but the longer he lived with it, the more ingrained it became with him. He never felt anticipation, only anxiety that everything he longed for would be taken from him. He was afraid he'd lose Star Wars, his girlfriend, his favorite pen, that the gifts he picked out for his loved ones would disappear and they'd be dissapointed. He was afraid that he'd lose his readers by writing too much, or too little. It was a constant battle. It was one he so longed to win. It was one he never knew if he would.
That didn't stop him, from trying to pursue his happiness. To catch the dream. To save the day. To try and preserve his optimism. It was a battle. Everything was. It was what he knew, he was a warrior. He might live his whole life as a warrior.
He did not hold contempt at his potential fate, because despite the battle, he was happy. He loved those around him, he did what he loved to the best of his ability. He knew things would work out, even if the world seemed to close in on him sometimes. He knew he'd do his best. He knew he'd love as much as he could and he'd do the best that he can. Because everybody knows that's how the story goes, and we're all just stories in the end.
I hope you all appreciated that, or didn't hate it. Or whatever. I write it for me, I'm a selfish bastard anyway.
Happy Holidays.
Love you all.
<3
Bailey S. Fox
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