Just when I think I’ve run far enough to escape, it lasso‘s me.
Dragging me by the ankles.
Screaming and clawing I try to escape.
I’m pulled back into that awful space…my anxiety.
About the Creator
Emma Louise
I’m a nature loving, gentle soul who loves to feel, think, and do stuff.
Sometimes thoughts fill my head and spill out…Thanks for taking a look
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You Think You Can Do These Things, But You Just Can’t, Nemo!
That time - THAT time - on the clock came, and went. It‘s the anniversary of the day I broke. I’m a year older, but I feel, and I know I look more than 10 years older. I‘ve become forgetful, stressed, forgetful, anxious, forgetful, nervous, apprehensive, forgetful and incredibly frightened. Did I mention forgetful? I lost 10 pounds in two weeks because food tasted unpleasant, eating became a chore and the things that made me laugh no longer sparked joy. I stopped seeing friends, enjoying my hobbies, attending the gym daily (quite often twice a day). I didn’t bake cakes, start new craft projects I knew i’d never finish, have an impulsive closet cleaning day, and I stopped going out-out. My stomach felt like a tempest at sea. The waters were choppy and deeply unsettled. Sleep no longer came easy and when I could fight no longer it would take me for mere minutes at a time before I’d fight it off and force myself awake. I didn‘t want these feelings to go away though. I wanted to live with this apprehension so i‘d be ready if the monster snuck into his brain again. I wanted to punish myself daily because maybe I caused this somehow. I wanted to carry my heavy cross. I wanted to wear my anxiety like a supervillain cape, enveloping me and smothering me so all I could see, hear, smell and feel was THAT. My family had no idea, they didn‘t know I was broken, I hid it well and they obviously saw the fun, creative, super-dooper happy mother I always had been...obviously. That’s what I thought until one day recently, when my son sat beside me with plump tears rolling down his face (he’s 16, we don’t see tears from him too often) and he simply said, “I’m sorry, Mum. It’s my fault you’re sad, and I’m so, so, so, sorry.” Clearly, I had hid nothing. I broke a bit more. I’m weirdly averse to emotions and tears were something that rarely made an appearance on my own face once upon a time, but since THAT day a tear reservoir was built behind my eyes and several times a day they’d spill out and down my face. Within a second the tears had soaked my face and were dripping off onto the pillow I was self-soothing with. On top of everything else he’s also feeling guilt. That hurt me more than I can find words to express.
By Emma Louise3 years ago in Journal
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