I have always envisioned the mechanics of my mind through a theater performance. My mind has always been the center stage. Whether the moment be melancholic or delightful, the stage is alive, illuminated, and all.
In fact, the only time my stage is graced with the sincere presence of darkness is when I fall into slumber. It’s only then the crew pulls down the curtains and my mind is finally left to enjoy the essence of tranquil vacancy.
Yet through recent waves of uncertainty, I find the cast has had no break from encapsulating my emotions, articulating every paranoid thought that floods my mind. Even when I’m supposed to be relaxing, the stage is consumed by tension. I’ve grown fearful that my mind is going to orchestrate into an infinite sorcerer of anxiety, instead of a theatre of creativity.
My psychiatrist believed upping my dosage would put the show to a rest, but nevertheless, the encore has continued to lash out. Every conscious moment was spent imprisoning myself with fear that this inner cesspool of paranoia was here to stay.
It took a long time to recognize this anxiety as something other than a cruel life sentence. This fear of uncertainty, presence of paranoia, the obsessive and painfully uncontrollable thoughts, they are a part of my artistry. Even though they still frighten me. This anxiety is a part of my theater of creativity. My encore of flaws are my artistry, they are not what define me, but they are part of what makes me eccentrically myself.
yours truly,
Natalie