My version of the 'felt cute might delete later' selfie. Felt vulnerable yet open, might delete later...
I've always said I champion writing about Mental Health, being open, maybe helping someone out along the way but I've been hypocritical these last few months. In fact, I've barely written anything at all. The first sign that something was *off* was when reading my own WIP felt like reading something I couldn't access... These words, where had they come from? How had they ever flowed when now I couldn't edit a paragraph? Writing suddenly felt like trying to shape static and even the excitement of a plot playing out in your mind (where it's easy! Where you're not even having to shape it...) disappeared.
So I just... didn't write.
And then the rest crept in. First, everything felt heightened and primed for *something* all the time. Every scenario felt huge. I lost my perspective then my faith. People could be as nice as pie and as reassuring as possible and I simply wouldn't take it in. Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever, whatever. Arrows on armour.
What I think was really building and what felt (feels?) like the root, was that I just don't feel like *myself* anymore and this construct, of what I *was* hangs over me, making me ever more susceptible to feeling detached and frightened, like pieces of me are melting away, soon to be followed by what's left of my mind...
Because that's the real fear. The one that says that this is big and huge and terrible this time. That this isn't like any other time I've been anxious, that it's *the* time. The time when it will escalate beyond anything I have comprehension of. I constantly imagine what it might feel like if it gets worse which then makes me feel worse which then convinces me it is getting worse and wahoo, a carousel...
Where I'm here, sick of following 'rules' and 'reasonings.' Irrational and intrusive thoughts are my new companions and I've tried playing by their rules but it hasn't got me anywhere.
So, words. Just a few. Just a start.
[Less intense content will resume tomorrow.]
I've always said I champion writing about Mental Health, being open, maybe helping someone out along the way but I've been hypocritical these last few months. In fact, I've barely written anything at all. The first sign that something was *off* was when reading my own WIP felt like reading something I couldn't access... These words, where had they come from? How had they ever flowed when now I couldn't edit a paragraph? Writing suddenly felt like trying to shape static and even the excitement of a plot playing out in your mind (where it's easy! Where you're not even having to shape it...) disappeared.
So I just... didn't write.
And then the rest crept in. First, everything felt heightened and primed for *something* all the time. Every scenario felt huge. I lost my perspective then my faith. People could be as nice as pie and as reassuring as possible and I simply wouldn't take it in. Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever, whatever. Arrows on armour.
What I think was really building and what felt (feels?) like the root, was that I just don't feel like *myself* anymore and this construct, of what I *was* hangs over me, making me ever more susceptible to feeling detached and frightened, like pieces of me are melting away, soon to be followed by what's left of my mind...
Because that's the real fear. The one that says that this is big and huge and terrible this time. That this isn't like any other time I've been anxious, that it's *the* time. The time when it will escalate beyond anything I have comprehension of. I constantly imagine what it might feel like if it gets worse which then makes me feel worse which then convinces me it is getting worse and wahoo, a carousel...
Where I'm here, sick of following 'rules' and 'reasonings.' Irrational and intrusive thoughts are my new companions and I've tried playing by their rules but it hasn't got me anywhere.
So, words. Just a few. Just a start.
[Less intense content will resume tomorrow.]
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