Where does it come from, this intense anxiety that grabs me by the throat and makes me pace, my heart race with adrenaline? Today, I’ve done everything right. “Take care of yourself,” they all say. So, I slept late, knitted and cuddled with my dogs, my warm friends flush against me in bed. I got up and plugged in earbuds and listened to a murder mystery for distraction. I cooked, and in the middle of cooking, it appeared. This exquisite apprehensiveness makes me feel as though I’m about to molt, come out of my skin if I rub up against a wall. I want to weep and scream all at once, stomp around the house and throw things. I hate this. I hate living this life of never knowing. How can I be okay for two days, then melt at my core? I keep asking the same questions and the answer is always that it is just part of “it.” I want “it” to be over - now, right now. I want to wake one morning and not have to look over my shoulder to see if the monster is lurking there. I doesn’t really matter if I look. He finds me anyway, when I least expect it, finds me and brings me to my knees, blubbering and wailing and afraid it won’t stop, afraid for my sanity.
The dogs are hungry. They want to eat, so I will feed them salmon.
I stand under a hot shower and wait for the extra pill to kick in. I have pills for these times and sometime they work.