I spent the last two days in bed. I took my computer with me, but it just sat on the bed unused. I had every intention of writing about what I was feeling, but the words would not come. Then I thought I would at least catch up on writing responses to comments left on my posts, but the anxiety flared up and I rolled over with a pillow over my head.
The time between 2:30am and 5:00am is the time I have set aside to write. It’s me time: no one is awake and the house is quiet. But when my internal clock woke me up this morning, I didn’t get up right away. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the depression and anxiety to hit me.
I love that small bit of time, right as I wake up when there are no bad feelings to deal with, just calm. It’s a little bit of time to hope that things will be better, that the shit won’t hit the fan and I will just have a wonderful angst-free day.
But a few minutes later, I started to feel the stirrings of something in my stomach and chest. The anxiety hit me first, like a punch to the stomach. Nausea gripped my insides and I almost vomited all over my wife and child sleeping in bed. Before I could react to the anxiety, the babbling in my brain overwhelmed me. Images flooded my mind, all negative, and I shook my head trying somehow to dislodge them. Panic welled up in my chest, and I groaned loudly, waking up my wife. She rolled over and went back to sleep, and I was left alone with my pain.
I lay there, tossing and turning for another half-hour before I could build enough energy to slide out of the bed. All the hope I had when I went to sleep last night that I would have a good day today was gone. My body felt heavy as I walked to the bathroom. I turned on the light and stared at myself in the mirror. I somehow looked older than my 45 years, like I had aged overnight.
I finally made it downstairs and went about my normal routine: making coffee, turning on my laptop, going outside for that first wonderful cigarette of the day.
Now, here I sit, four cigarettes and two cups of coffee later, and I still feel like shit. I took an extra Clonazepam to see if it will help with the anxiety, but I don’t think it will. I know I should be thinking positive, maybe deep-breathing, but all I am doing is focusing on the pain. My brain is babbling, my stomach is churning and my whole body aches like I have the flu.
Through all that, I wrote this post. I wanted to write something positive and thought-provoking, but this is all I could get out today.
I hope it’s enough.
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