Dear Panic Disorder

You planted your putrid seeds inside me many years ago. Had I known what a monster they would spawn, I may have been able to ask for help sooner. Instead, you grew and grew, silently whispering to me, whispering things straight into my soul, things that caused my life and my personality to change. Bit by bit.

Crumb by crumb, you ate me up inside, bound me in slimy chains, prevented me from doing one thing, then two things, whilst all the while convincing me that this way was best and this is what I wanted.

No. YOU wanted those things. YOU have reduced me to a quivering, shabby shadow of my former self.

Now I am fighting back. I am going to tell everyone about you, which weakens your resolve to ruin my life. I am going to take the Prozac presrcibed to me by the knight in shining white lab coat. I am going to do all the things you tell me NOT to do.

You thought that by breeding and growing inside me, until you reached the size of a massive infected boil, you could prepare for your final triumph. You thought you could force me to burst that boil and thus infect the rest of me. Well, you did succeed in that. Yes, for a moment I thought I was going to die.

Just for a moment. I have already won many battles against you. At a time when my whole world is crumbling, I am STILL fighting.

You know what, dear Panic Disorder? Your days are numbered.

For I am going to win the war.

No longer yours,

Gingerbug

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