Trapped in the Static

I’ve been living in anxiety again. Not brushing up against it, not catching glimpses of it in passing, but fully in it. Waking up with a weight in my chest that I can’t explain. Walking through the day like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to break. There’s this dull, persistent buzz just beneath my skin, like a warning alarm that I can’t turn off. And no matter how much I try to reason with it, to breathe through it and convince myself I’m safe, it clings like a second skin. Quietly, steadily, it wraps around me like fog until I can’t tell where my thoughts end and the irrational fear begins.

Anxiety doesn’t always come crashing in like a storm. Sometimes it slips in the back quietly, like a subtle thought you were sure you could control, until you find that you actually can’t anymore. It starts with something small, a single thread you tug at without realizing it will unravel everything. One question becomes ten, and ten becomes an entire world of "what-ifs" you can’t crawl out of. Suddenly, you’re stuck inside your own head, replaying conversations that already happened and rehearsing ones that never will. You analyze every word you’ve said, every silence you’ve left, wondering if you’ve said too much or never said enough. You tell yourself you're being ridiculous, but your heart won’t listen. It pounds like you’re running for your life while you sit perfectly still, forcing yourself to breathe through a fear you can’t even name.

It’s an exhausting kind of chaos, one that no one else can see. On the outside, you’re calm. You laugh, you nod, you go through the motions. But inside, you’re spiraling so fast it feels like you might break apart if you let yourself feel it all at once. It’s lying awake at night with a mind that won’t stop replaying everything you could’ve done differently. It’s canceling plans because you’re too drained from fighting battles no one knows you’re fighting. It’s letting the phone ring until it stops because you can’t find the energy to pretend you’re okay. It’s guilt for needing space, guilt for disappearing, guilt for the weight of your own thoughts that you can’t seem to put down.

Anxiety makes you question your worth in the smallest moments and convinces you that your presence is a burden in the moments you need connection the most. It makes simple things - answering a text, showing up to plans, even stepping outside to walk the dog - feel like climbing uphill with no end in sight. And when you finally catch your breath, you’re left with the exhaustion of carrying a body that feels like it’s always bracing for impact, always tense… muscles locked in anticipation of a blow that never comes… Jaw clenched, shoulders tight, like you’ve forgotten how to exist without flinching at every invisible punch.

Sometimes I wonder if people only love the version of me that’s easy to tolerate, the less dramatic version. The one who smiles in the right moments, nods along, keeps the conversation light. It feels like there’s no room for the messy middle, like being vulnerable is something I have to earn or apologize for. I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat, tangled in fear that if I show the full weight of what I’m carrying, it’ll be too much. That I will be too much. So I swallow it. I laugh when I want to cry. I make plans when I want to disappear. And then I sit with the ache of not being truly known, not because I’m invisible but because I don’t always feel allowed to be real. And that kind of loneliness… it doesn’t echo. It just lingers, quiet and sharp, under the skin.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone… It comes from being surrounded and still feeling unseen. It’s not the absence of people, it’s the absence of being understood. I could be sitting right next to someone, smiling, nodding, even laughing… but inside, I’m screaming into a void. It’s a silence that doesn’t come from peace, but from holding in too much for too long. I carry this ache quietly, folding it into small, polite responses and perfectly timed laughter. Because somewhere along the way, I learned that being too honest about mental struggles makes people uncomfortable. That my heaviness is a thing to hide, not share. And so I edit myself down to bite-sized pieces, trying not to take up too much space. I tuck it away. I become the version of myself that’s easier to be around. A version that is quiet, agreeable, strong.. But the longer I do that, the more invisible I feel. Not because no one’s looking, but because I’ve taught them what to see. Sometimes I just want someone to notice the weight I’m carrying without me having to hand it to them. To sit in the dark with me, not asking me to turn on the light. I just long for someone to sit with me and say, I see you. You’re not a burden. You’re not too much… you’re not alone.

Author’s Note:
Originally written June 18, 2021 - Living in a body that flinches at peace, that waits for storms even in the stillness.

Anxiety is still something I live with. My brain still builds worst-case scenarios like it’s trying to protect me but really, it just leaves me exhausted. There’s a strange comfort in the chaos sometimes, a false sense of control. If I imagine every terrible outcome, maybe I can outrun them. But the truth is, it’s not always easy to live like this. I used to think I had to hide this part of myself, to only show up when I was "better," when the thoughts weren’t so loud. But healing doesn’t look like perfection. It looks like admitting that some days, I feel swallowed by the noise in my own head. It looks like giving myself permission to step back when everything feels too heavy and trusting that the people who are meant for me will understand the silence.
I’m grateful for the people in my life now who don’t try to fix it, who let me spiral when I need to - then gently anchor me back to what’s real, what’s safe, what matters. I was deep in it during this, spiraling beneath the surface of a smile. I didn’t feel seen. I felt isolated and somehow “wrong” for the way my mind operates, like my anxiety was a flaw I had to hide rather than a wound I could tend to. Made to feel like I could only show the parts of me that were polished and performing, but not the quiet unraveling just beneath.

This piece came from that place… where fear was loud, and I felt invisible inside of it. One of the many entries written mid-spiral, it’s a snapshot of survival, not resolution. I share it now because sometimes the deepest healing begins when we feel seen. Not for how well we hold it all together, but for how bravely we fall apart.

I’m still learning how to quiet the spirals, how to show up even when it feels impossible, and how to forgive myself for the days I can’t. And maybe that’s enough right now, just breathing through the heaviness and finding small ways to stay grounded.