Anxiety.
As a kid, I was scared of the things I could see. I was scared of the Joker, of Freddy Krueger, the Mummy. They all looked scary, and they did bad things. I was scared of the swimming pool, and of the sea. I lost control over things inside them— my limbs, my breaths, my judgement. Myself. That’s how you drown. So I feared it.
As you grow up, I realised, you fear stupid things. You don’t fear what you see; you create your nightmares, cultivate them. You make up the monster in your head, and then you fear it.
I don’t fear losing my mother in the crowd at a fair anymore; I fear losing myself in my own body. What a stupid thought. The little girl crying at the fair wouldn’t understand.
I no longer fear seeing demons in the mirror grinning at me; I fear looking in the mirror and not knowing who I see.
Get Barira Khan Ghauri’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
The darkness of my room soothes me now. It’s blinding to the darkness inside of me. The gaping hollow. The surety of doom. The bars enclosing around my chest. And each time I grasp at a wisp of light, I grow a little more tired. Gaining, then losing, gaining, and losing…
Maybe it’s easier to let go. But I’m afraid that if I let go, I will finally go under. And never resurface.
I will finally drown.
I’m afraid of drowning. In the sea. In the storms. In all the dreams I have to let go of, but I keep holding onto. So tiring. Merciless. Suffocating. Every day. Always the same.
The storms don’t still. The waters don’t fall. The dark doesn’t give. I thrash. I’m desperate. I hold on to the remnants of who I once was, unable to piece them back together. Maybe if I let them all go, I will emerge as someone else. But I don’t want to be someone else. I don’t want to let go. I can’t let go. I can’t hold on. I don’t know what to do. I’m confused. I’m lonely. I’m terrified.
