Anxiety is spindly, spider-like, coated in dripping pitch that stains the floor, the walls, the ceiling as it thrashes and slows then slams itself against every surface. It wants out or it wants to be bashed in and it won’t stay still long enough for anything to be done about it.
But other times Anxiety curls in, wrapping its limbs around itself, oozing the burning sludge, and sits there crumpled, unmoving, hurting, and ugly. The walls are wet, water slides along the floor and mixes with the black. More water, dropped from the ceiling, there is skin beneath it all and for a moment an arm is completely exposed, speckled with grime but so real — so human.
Anxiety stands up, skin gone, lifts its too many legs up high and brushes the ceiling, taps it like raindrops and then beats it like a hurricane. The room is screaming. Water fills it up, determined to drown this horrendous thing and bear the sight of it twisting and twitching until its life is gone.
It takes a long time. In the end, the room cannot stand the sight after all and drains the dark water. Anxiety is just skin for now, for a moment. It stands, finds it has fingers and opens the door to dry off in the sun.
With Love,
Natalie
Note: In high school, I had to write a short piece personifying an emotion. I wrote one on Depression but this image of Anxiety has lingered. This is a short taste of how I picture it.