I’ve been avoiding writing.  It was simple enough: I always had a good excuse.

And then, I ran out of excuses.  I can only watch so much TV before my mind starts screaming for something more interactive.

So here I am, writing again—somewhat reluctantly.  I don’t want to think about anything.  These are the times I wish I was stupid.  I wish I was an animal.  I wish things would just slow down.  Everything’s going too fast.  Money is driving the car.

A day, a few hours sometimes, I feel I’m going too fast; most days, I feel too slow.  I only recognize my failures and shortcomings.  I feel nothing but fear toward the future and horror and shame toward the past.  I want things to be simple, but when I’m like this, this—taut inside, I can’t think past the fear and the horror and the shame.

It’s a never-ending panic attack.  I’ve been in it for days, and climbing into it for who knows how much time!  I’m blind, and I’m deaf to the world.  I’m feeling for walls, but I can’t find any.

It feels like screaming might get it out of me, this feeling, but I know better from experience.  There’s no getting this out until I collapse.  I can only hope this is the kind of mental collapse that happens to release tension.  Those are quick.  They aren’t the nervous breakdown I feel I’m headed toward but know I’m probably not.

I think often lately that I’m just a dumb drama queen, whining my time away.  I fear that.  I think about that.  It’s another reason I haven’t written.  I’m losing faith that I have anything worth writing.

My mind is turning in on itself, betraying and consuming itself.  I feel I could touch madness, if I just reach my arms out.

I have to tell myself, I’m not a fuck-up.  I’m not a bad worker, friend, girlfriend, person.  I’m not sick or even damaged.  I’m just a person whose lived her life as well as she’s been able to.  I try very hard to always be good, to always do the right thing, to never do harm but instead to leave everyone I meet with a new perspective.  Bad people don’t do that.  Bad people don’t try so goddam hard.

Do they?

A voice whispers, what if you’re delusional?  What if you want to be that type of person, but you’re not?  What if you’re just a natural fuck-up who has your “friends” and boyfriend fooled?

Whining.  Whining.

—Then, I think of everyone who reads me, everyone who knows me in my life, and I recall their reassurances.  It amazes me how far their words go.  I didn’t grow up with emotional support.  The instability characterizing my childhood makes it very difficult for me, among other reasons, to believe in myself.  So, I have to start changing my way of perceiving, first by changing the way I talk to myself:

So, it’s not whining.  It’s me, remembering, telling, trying like hell to do more than survive this, because I know I deserve more.  I’m not unworthy of love.  I’m not disgusting or moronic.  I’m—somewhat pretty and not a little intelligent.

If I keep saying it, will it come true?  I doubt it, but I have to try.  I have to try everything.  I’m going to take self-defense classes as soon as I get a car.  In the meantime, I’m going to start going back to therapy more steadily and taking my meds at the same time every day.  I’m going to build a routine, and I’m going to stop numbing out.

I keep saying this, don’t I?

No.  Just another doubt.  I can do it.  I just have to keep moving, keep pushing myself forward.  If I’m not pushing myself, I’m not learning.  If I’m not learning, I’m wasting time.  I can’t keep wasting time, or every day will continue to feel like the last few days have: like the bugs of madness are skittering on my brain, inside my skull.  I want to get them off, but I can’t get inside.

I hate talking about this.  Every moment I’m awake to this madness, engaging with my mind, tightens my throat and makes my foot tap harder on the floor.  The pain in my leg muscles will last for days.

So, I’m taking a different stance on myself.  I’m giving myself a break for tonight.  I’ve been a good girl.  I’ve written, and I’ve worked on myself here.  I’ll try not to feel guilty about going to watch more TV now.  I’ll try to tell myself, it’s healthy to unwind sometimes.  Tomorrow, there’s work.  Tonight, it’s me time.

I’ll try to believe myself.