Burn to nothing

There are many interesting studies that delve into the emergence of anxiety and depression in early childhood, ending in the finding that trauma informs the subconscious or inner child to later develop mental disorders.  Others conclude that the seed is within us from the day we are born. The debate warring and wrestling with the idea of whether nature or nurture is the key to development always finds itself trapped on an endless bridge. 

It is a genetic predisposition that pumps poison through veins and stiffens the wells of chemicals to near depletion of the vagus nerve. Fussy babies prone to cry at the drop of the hat, and crystals of separation anxiety formed in the tears of their lashes, present the sensitivity to feel cold anxiety permanently finding a place at the bottom of their hearts. 

And I was one of those babies. 

I’ve always questioned if the weight of who I am isn’t some shortcoming of a nervous joke. if mental illness isn’t some inborn shackle for failure. I wonder if the fault is with me or someone else. 

Some of us are born from a cracked mold that creases our emotions, folding them over and over until they burn to nothing. 

And I’ve near burned to nothing.

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