Letter To Stress

Dear Stress,

You spring on me like a hurricane.
Like the scary ghost in a scare-jumps packed horror films.
Like a twenty year old man on his first night with a woman. 
You spring on me and I am left defenseless against you. Trying to catch my breath but your presence clogs my lungs. I understand why you're here. I understand you believe you are joining me because it is some sort of a protection spell. I bet you think if you join me - I will surely excel. But in truth, your presence is only a cycle of YOUR existence. You don't contribute to any change in me. You only contribute to... well: STRESS in me. 

And Stress, oh dear Stress... you HURT me. 
You hurt me with your carelessness. Your flakiness. Your lack of decision making. 
​You just show up in order to rile me up and get my mind spinning. And it spins. Boy does it spin....
A rollercoaster type of a spin. A spin that leaves me bleeding on the floor, reaching for a life line. 

Oh, Stress, do you HAVE to show up like that!? 
With your panic. Your intensity. Your negativity?
Do you have to remind me of all the things I HAVEN'T done yet and how that must mean I am a complete and total utter mess!?? 

Oh, Stress, you feed into my workaholic nature. You play right into it. And my workaholic self loves that - she actually thinks there is value in you. Same as there is value in money. In success. In power. She is sure that having Stress in her means that she is busy and therefore WORTHY TO BE ALIVE. I repeat, in some workaholic circles, having yours truly Stress as a regular chaperone is so delusional that it is actually making people feel ALIVE. 

Well, if DEAD means I don't get to have stress most of the time... SO BE IT.

~Moi