It's like having an anxiety attack. I'm sitting here all alone and quiet and suddenly I can't breathe. I'm gasping for air. Everything is happening right now. In this instant, absolutely everything is occurring. But I'm sitting still. Alone. Not moving. And I can't breathe. I'm sucking in air, hyperventilating and it still feels like I'm not getting enough. My hands are shaking from the single cup of coffee I had eight hours ago. And it feels like I'm about to explode.
I can't be here. This place is fucking haunted. Everywhere I look is a ghost from the past. I spent three hours rereading my posts from the past year here and I couldn't stop. I've gotten approximately three pieces of big news/big plans already today and now I can't concentrate. I was getting things done and now I can't. I can only sit here and hyperventilate and tremble. So here I am, a month after I last posted anything, writing again because I'm afraid that I'd lose it if I didn't. In an earlier life, I would have gone for a run to soothe myself. Or called a friend. But I hate running now and I don't really use the phone much. And besides, what would I say?
I'm trying to get over myself. I'm really trying to turn into a functional human being and continue my life, but it's not working. I'm dizzy and frantic and everything is spinning too quickly around me and I just want to tell it all to stop, but I know the universe wouldn't listen and everyone else would just look at me strangely, so I keep my mouth shut and try to contain my raging thoughts.
I had a dream about her last night. I haven't even really thought about her in months, but here she is, haunting this place. Even though she's never been here, doesn't know anything about it, even though I've never even fucking met her. But like I said, this place is full of ghosts, and it seems she's become one of them. And so have other people. It's like my life flashes before me every time I'm here, and I can't spend more than an hour in silence without losing it. The washing machine in the background sounds like a train coming to run me over. The warm air pouring from the heating vents is poison coming to kill me. Every word I see on my screen is a reminder of everything I've failed at, even when I haven't failed at it at all, and I don't know how to fix it.
I can't even calm myself down. Writing isn't helping. I can fill page after page and I won't be any less anxious, even though I'm trying. I'm trying hard as hell. But it won't go away. I dread being here, I dread going back. I can't handle this right now, or possibly ever. And maybe it's that I'm tired and stressed and overworked, but I was okay until things started happening, and then everything spun out of control. I want to do something reckless to calm myself, but I don't know what. I have no creative outlet right now. And fixing things by throwing words at a page gets harder and harder every time, it takes more and more words to get anything right.
This is my morphine, my codeine, my Vicodin. Each time I need more and more to calm the fuck down, to make my heart stop racing, to ease the knots out of my stomach. I don't know how to take care of myself right now, and even though I know it'll all be fixed in a few days when I get back to routine, I am drowning in myself at present. I am out of words to say. I don't know how to make myself better.
But there it went. I ran out of words and calmed down again. This is a drug. I write enough to push whatever emotion I'm feeling just far enough out of me, and then I'm okay. It's a coping mechanism. I'm sorry to fill the space with such worthless rambling, but sometimes I just need it. Here most of all.
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