Overthinking (at night)

Dear World,

I’m no stranger to my overthinking mind. She’s given me headaches, anxiety, stress, and countless other ailments. At night, she freezes my feet on the desert below. I have no shoes on. Each second on the cold-biting floor is a second of unexplainable pain. And yet, no matter how much my heart wills it, my feet won’t move. My legs aren’t stuck. They’re just under the illusion that they are.

I’ve sought many methods, far and wide, to rein in this mental defect. Count them on the fingers of one hand: journaling, meditation, mindfulness. I started reading psychology to find the key to unlock the control room I’ve been locked out of — in my own mind. I stand outside the door, gazing indignantly at the person at the controls, who I, at the time, see as someone other than myself.

The secret to entering the room was realizing that the person outside and the person inside were both me. In fact, there was no door at all. My hatred of overthinking had projected itself into a figure that wasn’t me — trapped behind a door. Oh, how pathetic I was.

Slowly, I’m coming to accept my overthinking, not as a flaw, not as a strength, but simply as an attribute. It’s part of who I am. It is my pen: drawing worlds and crafting theses. But at other times, it stabs into my skin, branding it with confessions of guilt for the world to see. “Look at me,” the pen screams through my flesh, “look at how pathetic my human is —I’m brilliant, just stuck with an owner who doesn’t know how to use me.”

The layers of guilt branded on me over the years have formed a coat. The weight of the ink presses down, crippling my knees. I bend to the ground, begging the world for forgiveness for crimes I did not commit. The heat from the coat’s insulation burns my skin, reminding me that I must be punished.

But I’ve learned to shed those layers. Friends supported me. Works of fiction and philosophy — special thanks to Crime and Punishment — rebranded the words once etched with shame, now into ones of pride. My heavy, blistering coat has become something else: a blanket. Light, comforting. One I’d wrap around myself in public without shame.

If, for some reason, my knees give in again someday, and I bend to the ground, this time, I won’t be asking for forgiveness.

This time, I’ll be asking for strength.

Mark my words, I will stand up.

Good night, World.