Anxiety’s Mate

Shiver, shake, steely eyed glare.

Body falling, worm hole of doubt.

Plethora of words, but none to share.

Locked in a box with no way out.

Tic, toc,

I mumble as I wait

Still and watching an unforgiving clock.

My loves spills jokes, but none satiate,

Or comfort my mind

Wired and fearful,

I, anxiety’s mate.

Dawn breaks,

Will dread swallow me whole?

My hopeful heart wakes.

Only time will tell me

If I am to add this to my endless list of mistakes.


Red Sunflowers

Sitting here, I blankly stare

At the red sunflowers

Reflecting in the checkered

window’s frosty glare.

Rattling like a snake,

My mind slithers me back

To a time before I was crippled by judgement,

Reacting to every sound, every snap,

Assuming all corner’s lay mousetraps

And I, the hiding rat.

It was a time before my fingers froze,

My back stiffened and my vision blurred.

A time before I over explained,

Overdid and over endured.

A time before my answers to questions

Came out muddled and slurred.

So I blink twice

Unmoving, my body is heavy, my arms are slack,

But I manage to reel myself in

From a head of chaos and a soul of doubt.

“Who have I become,” I ask

To a window that does not talk back.

So I sit here and blankly stare,

At red sunflowers,

Chopped and lifeless, without a care.



Last year, I began seeing a psychologist. She helped me work through many of my fears, anxieties and a harsh reality that began changing my family dynamic. When she asked me what word could describe how I felt when the stressful events would happen, I could only think of one word. Frozen. I felt frozen. I was frozen when I comforted my mom. Hearing her fraught with stress and belittled to tears, because my dad had had another episode. When my brothers didn’t believe me, when I told them that our dad was changing. Every difficult conversation I had with my father. Every fight we had when I didn’t understand what he was going through.

It was an emotionally draining year, but finally we got my dad to a doctor and found out that he was in the early stages of dementia. The paranoia, hallucinations, delusions, irrational fears and forgetfulness all fit under one explanatory umbrella. As I learned more about the disease, it started to make sense to me.

Now that he’s on medication, things are better. But they aren’t perfect. He still has episodes, just not as often. When they do happen, I feel the same way. I feel numb to the chaos. It takes me a while to thaw out my emotions and be productive.

Writing has been my savior. Writing has helped me cope when things got tough. As I am writing this now, I feel anxious. I worry about all of the worst possible outcomes. What if someone in my family sees this? What if I am saying more than I should? But another part of me wants to share, because I am not so naive as to believe that I am the only child of a parent with dementia or Alzheimer’s. It is more than just forgetting. It is the decline of cognitive functioning. It is the loss of reason, critical thinking skills and, for my dad, it created a paranoid and irrational personality he struggles to work through.

As a society, I don’t think we talk about mental illness enough. I wish I had understood more before this happened. I wish my father’s generation was taught more too. Maybe then he wouldn’t think of mental illness as a taboo subject. Maybe then he would be open to talking about his anxieties or even willing to admit he has them.

As for me, I know that the first step in working through mental obstacles, is admitting you have them. I wrote this poem to express how I feel when it seems as though the world is closing in on me. I wrote it to admit my weaknesses and help myself work through them. I hope that this means something to someone else too. I hope it helps someone see that although, yes, this poem is dark, it isn’t meant to be negative. It is meant to be expressive. It is meant to be the beginning of getting better.


Hands of ice.

My frail body draws blood to its core.

My eyes, they see nothing

My ears, they hear no more.

My mind is but a captive,

To a cold, creeping icy lure.

Feet dug in snow,

Icicles in my joints, solidified from fear

Locking in my knees,

Liquid blood conversion,

Throughout my veins to my arteries.

I move no more,

Slowly, I feel no more.

My body a still, floating boat,

Without an oar.

Heart of ice.

I am trapped in this blizzard ensuing.

With no escape in sight.

Without the warmth of the golden sun,

To feed my soul and arm my fight

Against the cold, cruel war

Within me brewing.

I once lived in peace,

With careless ease.

But I now lie frozen.

A prisoner of anxiety.


Terrors of the Night

I will tell them I know nothing.

My heart pace quickens as the night draws near.

Voices in my head run rampant,

Like horse hooves pounding the wet pavement,

The carriage wheels spinning with speed and squeaking from ware.

I hear them coming for me.

Knocks thud like thunder and rain on my fragile wooden door.

Hidden corners deceive me,

I have no escape.

Screeching voices echo through my shallow halls,

The floors shake from the stomping of their rain soaked boots.

They have found me.

I tremble as the words escape my lips.

I tell them I know nothing.


Memoirs of the Passive Aggressive: Lion Inside Me

Push, shove, hit me once more.

The Lion who waits for you, stands at your door.

Red rash, scratch, bleeds till I’m sore

My mouth may be silent, but she’s keeping score.

Careless assumptions fly

like darts to my eyes,

While she’s steadying hers,

Aiming to pounce at your lies.

As I take in your cruel voice, with it’s ear numbing shrill,

Shes waiting to swallow you whole, Like a whale eats her krill.

Those heavy words from your mouth, the one you never pause,

May sting sharp like a bee,

But she’s sharpening her claws.

Push, shove,

Open your door,

The Lion who waits for you,

Waits here, no more.

Lower your gaze, you narrow minded louse.

I thought I was a lion,

But, when it comes to fighting back,

I am really just a mouse.


Owl in the Night

Brown eyes like murky wells so deep, they stare me down in the night.

Blinking back my shallow depths, I hopelessly peer,

For I have lost my sight.

Time passes, I carry on.

What have I to fear, as I saunter towards the facade of the light.

Nothing, or so it appears, waits for me here,

But if my eyes could dig deeper,

Like sharp claws to a loose branch,

Then those eyes could guide me home,

My owl in the night.



My eyes wide with confusion,

Furrowed brows, clasped hands, hollow lips,

As my teeth dug as deep

As my nails in red, torn skin.

Wishing I could start again.

One massive, personality transfusion.

My tongue, numb to true words spoken,

But, oh, how I wished that you had seen me.

How I wished that you knew my soul.

But, really, how could you?

Human eyes are blind in the dark

And I am the burrowed mole.