My father says: ‘Only rich people go to therapy, poor people got shit to do’, and yet here I am in this lifeboat, surrounded by eight of the most beautiful, crazy ass motherfuckers the world has ever seen.
‘What if it’s not just a mole? What if it’s a flesh-eating virus?’ ‘What if I fail at life?’ ‘But what if it really is the rapture this time?’ ‘What if they hit us again?’ ‘What if I wake one morning to see planes of scraping skies again?’ ‘What if it’s me this time?’ and I think, wow, it must be exhausting to want to live this much. Fuck the depressives. Fuck the body image meditation group. Fuck sex addicts anonymous. Give me your tired, your poor, your anxious, your huddled masses yearning to breathe deeply and count to ten.
Give me this collection of blurted confessions of psychosomatic itch of twitch, and tick, and stutter, and sweat. Give me these weak-kneed, jumpy-ass, too much saliva, break out in hives, awkward stomach, hair falling out, chewing lips, restless leg, pounding heart bastards any day of the week.
These people who fight through every day like fucking gladiators, who fight demons worse than you and I can dream of, just because they want so badly to live. To hold on. To love. Because you can’t be this afraid of losing everything if you don’t love everything first, because you have to have a soul-crushing hope that things will get better to be this afraid of missing it. Catalina Ferro ‘Anxiety Group’
February 3rd with 116 notes | reblog