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This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at DePaul chapter.

I’m afraid of… a lot. Most things, really. It would probably be quicker, and far less painful, to tell you what doesn’t scare me than try to justify what does.

I mean, I have my quasi-rational fears: spiders, scary movies, butterflies, the dark. The kinds of fears that your friends make fun of you for, but understand in their own weird way.

Then there are the fears that do a delicate dance with insanity, but are just sane enough to write off as normal: showering with the door locked (what if I fall and break something?), showering with the door unlocked (what if someone sneaks in to murder me?), sleeping alone (is there anyone who likes this?), sleeping with someone (it just feels so… vulnerable), being mean to a waiter (so much so that I tend to overcompensate and operate strictly in nauseating tones of graciousness) … you get the gist.

Then there are the ones that are just plain crazy: my house being built on a sinkhole (you live in Connecticut, Han), a tree falling on my house in the middle of the night, landing on my room, and impaling me in my sleep, being on one of those planes that just … disappears? I wish I could say the rational part of my brain knows better than to let the things I can’t control keep me up at night, but there I am at 3 AM, getting far too acquainted with the cracks in my ceiling.

But worst of all, I’m afraid of my own anxiety. At this point, being anxious makes me anxious. I find myself in this vicious cycle of getting worked up over something I can’t control, and then getting even more out of my head because I am, in fact, out of my head. Which I can’t control. Which means more spiraling, and more anxiety.

At this point, I’ve tried it all. From the medicinal route (CBD, I love you), to at-home remedies; teas, baths, meditation, even painting, which my crippling perfectionism swiftly vetoed. Nothing seems to stick. At this point, I feel like it might just be easier to lean into it than stand in strong opposition. I would probably get more sleep that way, at least.

But that’s the thing about anxiety: it is innately exponential. Once that snowball starts rolling, it’s pretty hard to stop. Sometimes it’s better to get out of its way than to put all of your energy into fighting it. What you resist, persists, or some yogi shit like that.

I wish I was writing you with an all-encompassing remedy to the seemingly endless emotional flood that is anxiety, but I am just as lost as the next guy, searching frantically for a lifevest and taking deep, calming breaths. So, to anyone who sees themselves in my pseudo-psycho madness, this is for you. If anything, I hope this serves as some form of oddly specific representation.

Oh, and if you do find your house is built on a sinkhole, I’ve heard your chances of survival are better than you’d think. Unless it swallows you in your bed, then you’re screwed.