Relentless and Inexplicable

      The hardest part was never laying bare my soul; it was asking others to look.

      There was no one around to listen. There could have been; I had more than my share of invitations for the day. Six different requests for my presence, from parties to quiet nights in, to one-on-one adventures, and what did I settle on? Wandering in solitude on a quest for something – anything – that felt right, only to end up lonely and unfulfilled.

      The last thing I wanted was to be around people, but an extremely close second-to-last was being alone. No, what I wanted was something I didn't have; a companion, someone with whom I could be vulnerable and intimate and talkative and silent and honest and weak and me. I didn't want romance, or sex, or any of that nice but ultimately unfulfilling “intimacy,” I wanted someone with whom I could pour out my heart without expectation or fear, someone with whom I could physically be close, whose very presence is a comfort. And I wanted someone to whom I could provide all of that, and more, someone who would be an extension of my heart, my very self.

      But it wasn't all about an as of yet fictional partner. Really, the anxiety just brought that out, and it in turn exacerbated the anxiety. No, this ran deeper, some persistent shroud clawing at my psyche. I became a series of contradictions.

      I didn't want to be around anyone, but I didn't want to be alone.

      I didn't want to do anything, but I didn't want to do nothing.

      Nothing sounded good, and nothingness sounded worse.

      I tried to figure it out and never made any progress, yet when I attempted to focus on anything else, it was all I could think about.

      The thing that made it most frustrating was the lack of definitive source. I'm well accustomed to anxiety from social situations, or stress, or any number of sources, and I know how to either address it or endure through it. But when it comes on without apparent cause and refuses to leave for weeks on end, affecting every aspect of life, how are you supposed to correct it?

      I couldn't talk about it. Mostly because I couldn't talk about the cause, but even accepting that, the anxiety plagued me such that I could never mention it when given the opportunity. I couldn't reach out. No matter that I felt it would be ineffective to discuss since I couldn't identify what I needed to work through, I couldn't even make myself say the words when I was in a safe place and had every chance to do so.

      Nothing was working. Nothing helped, nothing made anything better, I skipped out on all of my plans because I panicked thinking of each one, and instead I wandered aimlessly all day until I ended up alone in a park at midnight.

      But I wrote about it.

      I wrote about it,and put it out there for all the world to see. Not seeking sympathy, or pity, or support. Not seeking anything, really, except to get it out. To be proactive somehow. To take that little demon and get it out of my head, even if it's only long enough to shine a light on it before it worms its way back inside.

      If I can't make myself talk about it, I'll write about it. Because I don't have any fear of being seen; my only fear is that no one will care to look.