Yesterday was mostly one long anxiety freakout. One of those days in which everything you said was wrong as soon as you'd said it. Got sucked into a dark internet corner about fatness: this is pretty much what started it. Got dressed up to go to an event, didn't feel as good as you'd hoped you would (see: dark internet corner), was late to said event because of waffling in front of the mirror and anxiety-addled stupid mistake about train schedule, said a thing to a famous novelist that, oops, oh God. Maybe it was fine. It did not feel fine. Schedule mix-up with boyfriend, apologized profusely for what was without question his mistake. Raked in compliments at event about dress, necklace, nails; not one of them counted because none of them were from the person in the hopes of whose compliment it was all put together, who ducked out before the cocktail-party section without a word.
And on the train you read about the lives and feelings of women who grew up in isolated Christian extremist families and sects. Some of them describe their anxiety responses as adults, to things like churches and families and discussions of churches and families, and they do not sound so far away. You don't have PTSD. You were not socially isolated. You were never, ever, physically harmed. But the anxiety responses they describe have a familiar feel. The hypervigilance. Racing heart and shaking hands hoping it's not about to go bad, not about to get scary. The crash afterwards, the sudden lethargy and exhaustion. The way this feels abstracted from your life, which is good and fine and normal, you are fine, until this weird thing happens.
It is worth noting that when you started this blog, lo these many years ago, you were on anxiety medication. Maybe it is time to give that another shot, huh? Because girl, you have got shit to do, and this stuff does not help you get it done.
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