I’ve never drawn anything that represents my mind so accurately. If someone were to crack open my skull, this is probably what would fall out (along with thousands of characters and stories and lost plotlines).
I have so much anxiety and worry in me at the moment that it’s all become one big fuzzy mess. If I try really hard I can pinpoint one thing that’s causing it, but then I worry that I’m not actually worried about that, and in fact I’m just giving myself reasons to worry. Which usually makes me worry more because I’ve given myself something new to worry about.
I’m desperately trying to find logical reasoning in a place where there is none.
See it makes no sense to worry about worrying, it makes no sense, logical or otherwise, to be in a constant state of anxiousness. It makes no sense, that me, with my life, should feel like this.
On the other hand it makes absolute sense to worry about scientists experimenting and an impending zombie apocalypse. That’s a logical fear, there’s a 0.000000000000000000000001% chance of it happening but that’s still a chance enough for me. I can follow a perfectly logical train of thought to where that fear comes from, just like I can with the fear the house might burn down if my laptop isn’t turned off at the wall.
So I’m going around and around in circles trying to give logic to something where there might just not be any.
Wouldn’t it be nice to sleep all of the time?
See I’m very self aware, I think I always have been. I can have a full conversation with myself in my head as though I was therapist and patient. I can speculate for hours on three different view points about why I acted a certain way towards a person or why I did one stupid thing six years ago. I over analyse a lot and it’s taken me a long, long, long time to realise that it’s because I have anxiety.
This anxiety is not something new to me. It’s intensity and it’s unwillingness to fuck off and leave me alone is, but, the anxiety itself and the low moods is nothing new.
I used to cope by writing. Writing gave me focus and an outlet and even now writing in my head helps. It parts the fog and allows me a moment of clarity before I have to stop daydreaming and the fog comes back over. Recently writing has become harder though, my anxiety is starting to sink it’s claws into that and beast that she is, she won’t let go. My crutch is gone and I’m left floundering on the floor like a turtle on it’s back and no one coming to give me a nudge and flip me back over.
Writing wasn’t just an outlet. It was cathartic.
Without writing I feel empty, like a husk.
What happened to me? When did I start to ask myself what was the point in writing? When did I stop being able to cope with this shit on my own? What happened.
There was no major life event. No big turning point.
There was only exhausted soldiers fighting a battle against a monster much bigger than them, a monster fed more easily. So the soldiers have retreated, wounded but not defeated.