Comfortable Anxiety

Do I want to be comfortable?

I am comfortable, does that mean I’m content?

What will it take to have everything I want?

Why can’t I just be happy with what I get?

How will I ever know if I can stop trying so hard?

Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

Will I ever have a job that doesn’t kill me?

Is it just that I’m weakened, no longer tough?

Will I ever feel like everything is completely in my control?

Can I hold on to something dear?

Can I let go of trust?

I have found it, comfort, in my fear.

Nothing is sacred.

Nothing is whole.

I have found what I needed,

And I shan’t let go.

Anxiety is the enemy,

But can’t it be more?

What happens when I turn on the lights?

What happens when I lock the door?

If safety is my comfort,

How else can I cope?

Can I feel safe without fear?

I protect myself from losing hope.

I use to believe my anxiety was bringing me down,

But now I wonder.

Is anxiety the only reason I feel alive?

I continue to ponder.

That startling shock when something is wrong,

That pulsating thunder of nights so far gone,

That catch of breath I’ve been holding too long,

It awakens me to where I belong.

Hyper aware of everything that is real,

Pulled out from the fantasy,

Aware of everything I feel.

My comfort is my anxiety–that is how I heal.