Out of sorts, bitchy?
Like something is very awry.
Impending doom.
social anxiety
Tonight, we dine in Hell. Or Torchy’s. Whichever.
I feel…I don’t know.
Out of sorts, bitchy?
Like something is very awry.
Impending doom.
I am for the most part, very happy. Things are ongoing in my life that are full of awesome; there is a sense of a shell being stripped off and discarded. A recognition of needs and wants that I have suppressed due to a fear of…
You know, I don’t even have a name for it. Just a fear, that paralyzed the whole of me.
But that sense of lack, of not enough, is starting to fade. It’s like taking off clothing decorated with 80# weights.
I can’t even begin to describe the relief.
Wait. Wrong musical.
But today? Today, I am feeling like maybe those clothes are necessary.1 That I should be wearing those clothes. To hide. To be less. To be quiet, sit down, what the fuck do you THINK you are doing, you don’t deserve anything…blah blah blah, old tapes, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
Seriously, Anxiety?
Knock it off.
We are fine. We are just approaching lightspeed.
This is just the pre-flight jitters, Self. These free floating bits of worry? Are just the nasty old tapes in your head breaking apart, disintegrating.
1– I KNOW.
Any Given School Day
Even on a good day, she feels
bereft. Alone. Hunted and haunted.
Her head is a circle of eyes,
each staring in a different direction.
All of them blind.
If there is anything to see, she doesn’t know.
She cannot lift her chin from her chest to find out.
When requested or required to speak in class
there is a rabbit-thump reverb in her voice.
Skyrocketing towards stroke.
If it is noticed, she doesn’t know.
She is too busy berating herself for the fear.
There is too much.
Too much noise, too much silence.
Too much light and absence of same.
It is far too loud, bright, dim, quiet.
Buses and stairs are a problem.
Empty, they are menacing.
Full, they are the same.
Each startled jump
makes her even more self-conscious
and more likely to do it again.
The whole thing is a product
of her own imagining.
She looks at her works,
her grades, her thoughts, her words.
The story they tell seems obvious
to everyone but her.
It will pass.
It will get better.
This will all become common and safe.
It has happened before.
It will happen again.
It will happen again.
The Process 