Everyone gets anxious, sure. But most people aren’t afraid to leave home in case there’s a zombie uprising.
Most of the time I can be funny about it. I can find the humour in being terrified in the frozen food section. Who knows what damage a fish finger could do?
But, some days, like today, I can’t find anything funny about it.
Today is a ‘no good very bad day’.
Tomorrow, will be an ‘I’ve got this day’.
I’ll pick myself up from the pit of self-inflicted misery, put on my big girl panties, straighten my tiara and slay my day or whatever stupid inspirational shit works.
But today, my anxiety is packing a punch to the gut.
If you ask me, “How are you doing?” I’ll say, “I’m good thanks.” I don’t think you really want to know the answer, but here it is anyway…
There’s a restlessness in my legs I cannot control. They dance steps to some hidden beat.
There’s a swarming knot of serpents in my belly. They writhe and undulate ceaselessly whispering, a susurration of nameless fears.
There are crows trapped behind my ribs. Flapping and clawing they rake their talons down my breast trying to escape.
There’s a fire in my throat. A volcano of liquid lava erupting and burning a path to the outside. My personal Vesuvius.
There are voices in my head feeding the paranoia. Someone always watching. Something always going terribly, irrevocably wrong.
I hear death stalking in the shadows. I plan for it constantly. How and when and why. And what songs I want to play at the funeral and if anyone will come.
I have a body that I live in, but it is not me. It is some uncomfortable suit that does fit quite right. Like a six-foot six behemoth in a compact car.
I’m getting fired today. I know that’s not true but I can’t stop the vomit from rising. If I’m unemployed and homeless by 5pm where will I get a trolley and do I have enough cash for a shelter?
I’m going to the doctor. It’s routine. Nothing to worry about. But what if I die? What if it’s something serious? What if it’s nothing but a physical symptom of my degrading mind? What then? What’s worse?
The lights are blinding me and I can’t see through the static. I want to cover my eyes and cower away, but I hold my head up and I count. How many steps to the exit? How many pens on my desk? How many flowers on her dress? How many?
I am so very tired. It’s exhausting when I don’t whether to turn and run or stand and fight some non-existent hydra.
None of it is real. There is no zombie uprising. Coronavirus is not a bioweapon unleashed to destroy 90% of the world’s population. I’m not losing my job. I’m not going to die today. Probably. Maybe.
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