I stopped writing and I think that’s where it all went wrong. Everything got too big. It built up and up and had nowhere to go and I began to implode. Often when I need to write most I find it hardest to do. I start worrying that what comes out wont be good enough. Anyway, why would anyone want to read about the living disaster that is my ill-functioning brain? If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything at all. Ride out the bad and wait until you have something positive to say, something worth offering. Something that can help. Suffer in silence. Don’t practice what you preach.
It’s 12.17pm and I’m sitting on the sofa with Dolly-Dog curled up on my feet like a furry hot water bottle. I’m taking my Citalopram and wishing I could be normal, all the while knowing there’s no such thing, or rather, there is and this is it.
The good days outweigh the bad ones now and I’m grateful for that, but somehow it seems to make the bad ones worse because I appear to have forgotten how to deal with them. They seem like a bigger set back than they should, than they are…
My head itches inside. Everything gets over-analyzed to the point where I regret each utterence, each action. I feel idiotic. My stomach lurches, my chest feels tight as if it has been gripped by an invisible force that is trying to squeeze the life out of me.
Anxiety has got me again.
It crept up on me, stealthily stalked me. I couldn’t see or hear it coming and then it was too late. Now I have to ride it out and try to wrestle back control of myself.
This is real but it isn’t permanent.
The adreniline is real. The accelerated pulse, the tears that cling to every moment, waiting to fall, the fear of an unknown foe, the shallow breaths.
Damn my irratic, imbalanced brain.
Does this really have to be my reality?
Yes, for now, but not forever. Not permanently.
I’ll be okay again.