why can't a blade of grass just be a blade of grass?
why does it have to be examined so? and considered from every angle?
is there dog piss on this blade of grass? did a sneaker tread on it, covering it with the filth of urban streets? who sat on this grass before me? were they healthy?

i know that to you, a blade of grass is just a blade of grass. it's green, and pretty and a good place to sit when the weather is nice.

and so perhaps the world to you can simply be the world. i sit and think about how beautiful it would be to sit on grass and share drinks and open doors and take the subway and converse with people and handle money if they were all just simply what they are.

i live in a made up world of projected consequences. i do not feel safe anywhere.

The Test

An interesting thing I've noticed about tests in general is that the more difficult the trial, the more strength is required. If you were to make a mathematical equation it could potentially read something like this:

s = strength, t = trial and v = victory.

where s > t = v.

Unfortunately, the equation changes drastically when fear is introduced. All of a sudden, strength and trial have an inversely proportionate relationship. Whereas before, strength and difficulty increased similarly, now strength diminishes as the test becomes more difficult. And victory is harder to achieve.

The trip began as (to the eyes of the averse) a killer Everest to scale. It has since downgraded significantly; first to intermediate obstacle to finally, training wheels with papa bear trailing behind ready to catch me if I fall.

Following logic (and remembering that when t = time is introduced to the equation it also brings along 2 other factors- b = bravado and h = high hopes) the original plan I had was to travel to 4 European cities for 4 days each. Berlin, Barcelona, Rome and Copenhagen. Shortly after, it was whittled down to just Berlin and Barcelona. After some soul searching, I decided that conquering Europe would not solve the problem at hand.

I dislike driving.

Be it childhood trauma or negative self talk, I find the thought of getting into a car terrifying and the act of long distance highway driving leaves my chest feeling like a bomb went off. Steeled with variables t, b, h, I plotted to drive myself across America.

Once the decision was made I stopped thinking about it. Unfortunately, with most things (and especially travel) the devil is in the details and all sorts of details began popping up. Have you rented a car? Who are you going with? Do they drive? Where will you stay? How much will it cost? What about food? A gps? Do you need to buy a cooler? Have you saved enough money?

Overwhelmed with these thoughts, completely lacking in communication with my co riders and somewhat overshadowed by an en masse lesbian exodus to New York City the week before the trip was slated to begin I decided to reevaluate one more time and alter the plans. I will spend a few days in NYC and a few days in Chicago at a grand total of 9 days away from home.

Having said that, I cannot rent a car as I am not yet 25 and have no credit card. My options are as of this moment, fly or drive. Obviously I would rather fly but to some spectators of my journey this defeats the purpose of facing a fear of driving. I would prefer to fly but I would prefer not to talk myself out of something once more because the resulting guilt hurts more than anything else and it's a hard path to walk if you keep letting yourself down but refuse to pick yourself up.

And I'm starving for victory.

blah blah blah anxiety

home root symptom carpet dim blinds corn saucepan crack bed plastic bag archie comics car grandparents london mom dad reverse wave knex no how 401 turn back rue sleeping bag apple sauce green navy expectation guilt raw pain red peppers frosted flakes strawberries elevator doctors office bagel car alison help duncan rachel get out escape fly control tums vicks cancer shit puke fart green lungs water smell nerves voices shape dizzy howl

i'm sick i'm sick i'm sick i feel sick.

i need my home. the root cause of my anxiety has blossomed into a mighty web of symptoms. from the childhood memories of vomiting on the carpet beside my parents bed with my father beside me to the dim slatted blinds in their bedroom and my sick bed. corn eated from a saucepan, regurgitated into a plastic bag in the middle of the night when bending over a toilet made the experience feel "too real". reading archie comics in the car with my grandparents on the road to london- the ultimate trauma. playing knex, thinking "no" and "how do i get out of this"

i have a chainsaw in my brain and a wail in my heart. my stomach inverts and my eyes pull back further in my head away from the probing fingers of reality. stop drinking from my cup, stop touching my mouth, stop eating my fries. don't breathe on me with your mouth open. don't tell me your parents have anxiety. the future is bleak if i must exist in this way.