Writing 101: Anxiety and Me

This was written in response to Writing 101: Your Personality on the Page. The prompt was to right about one of your worst fears in a different style than you normally use.

Trigger Warning: This post deals with anxiety. If you are easily triggered by talk of anxious thoughts please stop reading. If you are reading this for the sole purpose to help your own anxiety, please seek help from a mental health professional.

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The dame was beautiful; gorgeous even. She looked like she stepped out of a movie with her blonde hair and red lips.

But it was her eyes that caught my attention. Her eyes sparkled like sunlight on a clear lake. They say that eyes are the window to the soul. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if humans have souls. But a guy like me could spend weeks lost in her eyes.

She didn’t look like the type of dame to smile often but I would do anything to see her smile. It’s dames like her that make me want to go through hell to please her. Not that I believe in hell.

When I saw her she was pacing a hole through the floor of my office. I was surprised that Dana let her in but that old maid is half blind.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” The dame slinked over in her tight red dress. “I’ve heard you’re the man to talk to.”

I don’t know who’s been talking about me but I’ve a mind to stop them. “Who told you my name?”

“It doesn’t matter. All I need to know is if you can help me.”

“That depends on what you need help with. I’m a lousy PI.” I walked around the dame and sat at my desk. My hands itched to pour me a stiff drink. With this dame, I’d need one.

“I don’t need a PI.” The dame leaned against my desk. “I need to stop worrying and I’m told that you can help me.”

I knew this dame would be trouble. I haven’t dealt with anxiety for years. “Someone’s been telling you lies. I can’t help you.”

“Please, I’m just begging you. I can’t sleep because my mind keeps running through worst case scenarios. I can’t eat because my stomach is all twisted up with worry.” The dame did what dames do; she started crying. A dame’s tears are the weakness of men everywhere, even hardened men like me.

“Alright, I’ll help just stop with the waterworks.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.” The dame patted her eyes with a white, lace handkerchief. I was beginning to think the dame could turn on the waterworks like she was turning on a faucet.

“There are no quick fixes. They don’t work.” I leaned back in my chair, allowing my feet to rest on my desk. I wanted to watch her reaction. I didn’t want to deal with anyone looking for a fix.

“I’m not looking for anything quick. I just want to get better.” She walked over to the lonely chair I kept for clients. She shook the chair before she deemed it safe enough to sit in. “I don’t want to waste my time worrying about everything.”

“When do you find yourself worrying?” If I was going to help this dame I needed to know the basics. “What do you worry about the most?”

Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. “I want to say I worry all the time. I don’t know when I worry the most. I know that I worry about money. Sometimes I worry about time or how I’m perceived by others. I worry about my lack of social grace and failing at work. Then there are times when I worry…”

“Enough.” I had to stop this dame before she gave herself a heart attack. “I don’t know if I can help you with all of your worries.”

“Please. You said you would help me.” The dame’s eyes lost their spark like a fire that had burnt itself out.

“You are beyond my help. I suggest you try a professional.”

The dame seemed to deflate like a balloon that had just been popped. “I already tried professionals. They told me you were the only one who could help.”