After a while you grow tired of hearing it.
At first, it's the worst.
How could you say that?
How dare you say that?
Who are you to tell me what I choose?
But after a while, it becomes a repetitive wound;
An ache you feel when someone pours salted words into it,
But you're forced to sit there and shrug it off as if nothing ever happened,
For if you dare defend yourself, "you're just being too sensitive."
But it still hurts.
It still stings when someone says it.
When someone you've loved and trusted for a long time
Looks you dead in your reddened, puffy eyes that are still dripping tears
Like a leaky faucet that nobody ever bothered to fix,
And they tell you that your Anxiety is a choice.
You think I chose this?
You think I chose to second-guess everything and anything I do?
To nitpick myself until I'm a vulture tearing away every last, tiny shred of self-esteem
That I was once so privileged to have?
You think I chose to get into countless dead-end relationships that never work out?
That I want to shut myself off
Out of the constant, irrational fear that every guy who's ever pursued a relationship with me
Has just been pulling some sick, twisted practical joke?
How could anybody want this?
How could anybody chose this?
Why would you torment yourself
With poisoned ideologies
And a permanently damaged heart
That nobody wants?
But I guess you're right.
I guess I have to agree with you,
Because if I don't agree with you, I'm being "too sensitive."
I'm being "ridiculous."
I guess it's a choice,
In your eyes, at least.
But you're blinded to my emotions.
When you think I'm overreacting because I'm shaking violently
And my body is wracking with sobs because I'm in the middle of a panic attack
Because of some dreadful thought
That has dared to enter my mind,
You don't see that it means so much to me in that moment.
You don't realize that words hurt.
You don't realize that words have nearly killed me seven times.
You think it's a choice.
So are you happy now?
Are you happy that you're right again?