ABOUT ANXIETY

My soul is all over the place at all times.

Dear reader,

today I want to write to… soothe my soul and maybe yours in the process.

‘SALT’ is a safe place for the mermaids - but it’s also mine.

I’m hiding something deeply inside of me, ashamed by it’s nature - and I’m thriving for honesty and authenticity out there.

So today I’m saying it out loud:

I’m anxious all the time.

All the time. Noises in my mind—

what ifs?

What if she’s better than me (someone I idealize)? What if I don’t have anything meaningful to give, to share, to express—something with depth and not just a beautiful surface? What if I’m cursed? Rotten? Spoiled? Eccentric? Crazy? A manic pixie dream? I can’t function clearly, with intention—I’m only reacting.

What if I never write that book I’ve dreamt of, vaguely, since childhood? What if I’m never someone important or valuable to society? What if I never have a baby, a dog, or a husband by 30? What if I always want to act like a child? What if I end up living on the street? Will my dad be proud of me? Is Mom sleeping well? Will my grandmother relapse?

The loop continues—you guessed it. Writing usually helps me break the curse of constant anxiety, which so often reduces me to nothing.

I don’t want to check my IG story—what if that girl I’m ghosting is still watching mine?

I don’t want to answer the phone if I don’t know who’s calling.

I don’t want to wake up in the morning.

And I can’t fall asleep at night, listening to my boyfriend snoring peacefully.

My head is filled with "I can’t," and my frustration keeps growing. I feel unable, incapable, idiotic. It’s not that I truly can’t, but what if I’m mild or mediocre?

A vicious, harsh little voice in my head is waiting for me to collapse. It’s mine, and I can’t—I CAN’T—shut it.

I'm thinking about the text from my Pilates teacher saying, "Happy New Year!" that I didn't respond to. I'm thinking about my dad, who hopes I'll finally start to follow his advice. I'm thinking about my boyfriend asking, "What did you do from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.?" when he comes back from his shift to a neatly cleaned house, incense burning, and a freshly written, never-ending to-do list.

Nothing, babe.

I did nothing. And I felt awful about it. I'm crippled by my own shame, and my brain is consuming my soul. I was thinking about death—my own—and fearing the passing of my loved ones.

I’m always advocating for death and life force—how everything should remain as it is: fragile, dainty, fluttering. But the truth is, I’m just like everyone else. I’m afraid to die without a cause, to vanish as a mere tragedy. I dread the day one of my parents crosses to the other side, leaving me alone to finally confront adulthood.

I’m almost 30. I should be afraid of that too. I’ve always posed as the cool big sister, but deep down, I’ve always wished I were the little sister. To be young, flawless, and able to make mistakes without counting them.

I need to find a new job.
Every year, it’s the same circus—a life crisis about sending my résumé into the harsh world of the corporate machine. As if I don’t always manage to find something, make money, and spend it on fine food, clothes, and Lucky Strikes...

By 30, I should know how to manage my money, or so the reader might think. (It’s probably why I abhor Carrie Bradshaw.)

But instead of buying Manolos like her in Sex and the City, I’m spending on pharmacy skincare, overpriced food and coffee, and home décor—just as unconsciously as she does.

I watch inspiring YouTube videos to quiet the relentless shadows of my mind. I listen to podcasts, read essays... but it’s never enough. One morning, the rage and helplessness in my chest ignites, burning a hole inside me until I react.

And when I react, I’m a lovechild of Hiroshima and the Plague.
Glamorous, raw, unfiltered, and nasty.

I’m anxious all the damn time.

And SALT, my idyllic island, reminds me that I have the right to be.
I’m not just a fantasy figure trying to redeem her soul through words that impact others. I’m allowed to be selfish, to write solely for my own healing.

Healing myself is healing the world, I tell my troubled heart. Being open and authentic will lead me to my tribe—and to self-acceptance.

I wanted to be godlike. Marina Diamandis’s daughter. Elaine from The Love Witch (2016). That girl.

I want to be ideal, fake, plastic, and loved for something plain and simple: my appearance. But I also want to be the cleverest girl in the room—and the kindest.

I’d love to have perfect boobs and legs less childlike and crooked. I’d erase the first wrinkles under my eyes and go back to loving the smooth skin I had at 22, even while bending under toxic love and drinking alcohol every four days.

I want money in my bank account and the luxury of worrying only about fancy Pilates classes and trips to salty islands.

I don’t want to be me.

And I should.

---

Thank you, Universe.

I feel safe, loved; I have a roof over my head and water. I'm a daughter and a friend. I'm an apprentice writer, and I hope to develop my style in both languages I write in. I aspire to be myself without shame, and I'm here to remind you: it's okay to be anxious.

"Movement is the key" is the best advice my dad ever gave me, if you need one to conclude this rant.

I have to remind myself that I have the right to feel the emotions I experience, so I won't apologize for opening up about my sorrows publicly.

I decided being a writer is beautiful and I can be inspiring and sad and anxious in the same sentence, in the process, in my own unique mess.

Michèle,

bisous bisous. 💌