It hurts. It hurts.
In private moments, when I’m most at peace, I forget where I am. A panic instantly sets in as I’m reminded of other times I’ve been senseless.
I want to shake it off. I want to exercise it away. I want to tap my foot until the pain in my thigh and calf surpasses the pain coursing from my mind into my back muscles. I’m just at work. I’m fine. It’s safe here, okay? I think.
My coworkers are starting to learn not to sneak up on me. These psychosomatic symptoms, I have no doubt, will be the death of me. I’m barely keeping the tears at bay, some days. Some days, I’m barely able to pretend to fight.
For perhaps a week now, my days have only been these kinds of days.
I have to look up why depression is so goddam painful for the body and how to help it, because I can’t take this pain much longer. And if I succumb to one more illness, my boss is going to start thinking there’s something seriously wrong, thereby feeding my biggest fear: that I’m unemployable, useless, and therefore, truly sick. Because only sick people can’t work, right? Only the ones that are really bad can’t—
I need to stop myself there. I’m catastrophizing, again.
Oh! It feels good to admit that. I’m feeling a little lighter now.
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