Waste Of Time

"She was a waste of time"

That's what I read in a two year old group text back in December.  Only, it said my name instead of "she."

I woke up the morning of my graduation party to a feeble attempt at repairing a broken friendship by restarting a group chat.  They didn't even bother to start a new one.  They opened the old one and ripped open that wound and I woke up to the words "she was a waste of time" written about me two years ago.
And no one disagreed.  No one fought for me.  No one reprimanded him.

I was doing really well in those two years.  I went from having panic attacks once a week to a softer, more gentle version of anxiety.  I still wanted to throw up when I got out of the car, but I didn't cry myself to sleep anymore.  I didn't shake.  I didn't gasp for air.  For two years, I was healing.  I was lonely, but I found someone important who was dealing with anxiety too and somehow, I think we helped each other feel better every day.
And then I woke up and saw that I "was a waste of time" to people I had loved.

It has been almost three months since I read that message and while I'm driving my brain will say "you're a waste of time."
I'll be laughing with my best friends, and in the back of my mind I hear "you're a waste of time."
I'll be dancing in my room to loud music and out of no where I hear "you're a waste of time."

I feel like I'm supposed to tell you that deep down, I know I'm not a waste of time, but I can't.  I think I know on some internal level, somewhere in me that the anxiety hasn't settled, somewhere I know that I'm not.  But wherever that place is, it's not strong enough.  So random times during my day the voice of that person I left behind whispers "you are a waste of time" and I retreat.

That's what you get when you are friends with people who don't respect your traumas.  That's what happens when you befriend people who are more interested in making you sick than making you better.

This is hard for me to write.  It's hard for me to tell you all that someone out there broke into my psyche and tore me apart with two year old words.  But this is the only way I know how to heal.
A few years ago, when I stopped being friends with those people, it was self preservation.  So is this.  Cutting off the poison and then writing about how it burned is the only way I know how to heal.  My hope, is that maybe one day, after this, I'll discover that place inside of me that truly believes I'm not a waste of time.  Maybe I'll find that part of myself and know how to bring it out.  Until then, all I know to do is tell you how it hurts and pray that it soon stops.