This isn’t a self pitying piece, or one that anyone needs to worry about – it’s just me, my words, and an exercise in catharsis. How much stress can one take before breaking point is reached? And what happens when it is?
I’m not sure why today, why now in particular, but that feeling of sick dread is at full power. I felt it tingling on the corners yesterday, peering around, but today it is standing in full sun. Nothing is loosening its hold. Mindfulness, my go-to release, has gone-too, and although the birds are singing joyfully, and the bees just waking from their nights slumbering, I cannot shake it.
I feel scared, anxious, sick and shaky. But still my infuriatingly analytical mind tries to make sense – what is different today than yesterday, the day before, a month ago?
I laugh, show interest and sympathy when I should, I make coffee and fuss the dogs; tug-of-war and football are just about within my capabilities, but shouting at me, giving me no peace, is the anxiety. Big, cloudy black and stabby – it’s there!
My desk, my keyboard and my words are my padded cell – if I’m writing, I’m not killing. The words trickle from my fingers, showing stark black on a white screen, can’t argue with black on white. Can’t fight the lines and curves, they need me to be and I need them to be true. Words only exist with us, but who owns who?