Sometimes for me anxiety feels like an inarticulate messenger, trying to bring me information but without skills for clear communication. So I try to say, "All right, I have received your message, you are free now." But it seems like I don't really set it free - I keep it tied to the porch, or I let it go but I leave food out for it so it can slip on its old shoes, tread its well worn, comfortable path, and enter the house at a moment's notice.
But other times, the message is so cruel and mean. It doesn't seem inarticulate at all, but effective and precise. I think for me, the reason for this is that I want to break myself down so someone else will mother me. I don't want to be capable, I want to be comforted. I don't want to have dreams and passions that I must relentlessly work and risk for. I want to be rocked in a rocking chair.
What all this has to do with eating our own skin, I still haven't figured out. I enjoyed our conversation about it a while back, though.
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