Diagnosis

Generalized anxiety disorder.

The words sound weird inside my head when I try to apply them to myself. It’s like putting on someone else’s Hello My Name Is… sticker while the adhesive is half rubbed off and threatening to detach from my shirt. Like it doesn’t really belong to me and if I attempt to claim it as my own someone might cry fraud.

But it’s right there, red pixels defining with words this never ending nervous energy, this buzzing dread that rarely quiets.

Generalized. Anxiety. Disorder.

And with a diagnosis comes a plan. Or at least the start of one. There are listed objectives and completion dates targeted. It’s all finally coming together.

I’ve waited more than a year for this, hiding out in dark bedrooms, avoiding the myriad of triggers, and failing to dodge the endless depression that comes from not living your life.

I’m not foolish enough to think that six to ten sessions will make all my problems go away, but it’s sure to lighten my load and hopefully put me on a path to deeper healing.

I’ve prayed for this. I’ve waited. I’ve cried. I’ve sat stoney and silent for days when there were no words to describe my hell. Now it feels like time to pray some more.

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