As a child I was very superstitious; never utter the phrase “Bloody Mary,” in the mirror, never step on a crack, and always look out for danger on Friday the 13th because it will find you.
Looking back my imagination fed my anxieties, every time a mirror was in front of me I saw what would happen if I uttered that phrase, and going to school on Friday the 13th meant monsters hid around every corner.
I didn’t know it at the time but it was anxiety, it was my way of trying to create order in a chaotic world, and if I did step on a crack I genuinely felt as though I was going to break my mothers back.
Anxiety taunted me with visuals of horrific things in order to scare me into compliance, always listen to that voice because it keeps me safe, not knowing that it would later become my doom.
It would later take on my appearance, my personality, then it would move into every area like a virus. That voice kept me safe from the monsters, so I believed that it must be right about everything else.
My friends wouldn’t understand why I was so worried all the time, why I overreacted to the slightest change of plans, or why I had stopped going to see them all together.
I don’t think my old friends even understand now, all because I listened to anxiety, because I thought everyone else was better than I was and they could have better friends.
Walking away only isolated me more, feeding my shame, and in turn, making me feel even more worthless. It was meant to keep me safe when my superstitions took over, but it ended up hurting me worse than any monster could.