I spent my weekend filled with a wafting sense of dread. Not for any good reason, just because my anxiety wanted to prod me in the ribs until I found it hard to do normal weekend stuff such as live in the moment while vacuuming, take a reasonable amount of joy from usually enjoyable activities such as cooking or get the required amount of unbeleaguered rest .
Now it is Monday morning and as I sit at my desk trying to focus on work, I am struggling to dampen the internal monologue constantly informing me that I have done all the wrong things, said all the wrong things and made everyone within earshot hate the very sight of me.
So I craft mental analogies to explain to myself (and others if they ask, oh you didn’t ask? Tough shit kid. I’m the Dad who catches his son smoking and forces him to smoke the whole pack until he is buckled over vommiting on the floor – please don’t do this to your children – to teach him a lesson. You will learn about anxiety damn you or I will die trying. Maybe not die but I might spew a bit.)
My metaphor for today’s struggle is as ever movie related and a wee bit violent. I feel as thought I am hanging off the side of a cliff -like in the climactic scene of basically any and all action movies – clinging by one hang, screaming blue murder for anyone to help me. The profuse sweating of my palm is making my fingers greasy and loosening my grip by the second. I’m yelling to all these people standing on the cliff to help me but they are all “You’re not even on a cliff Lucy you dumbass. Stop being a hypochondriacal c**t and lets go get some ice cream.”
How can they not see I’m facing impending doom? It feels so real, I’m sweating, heart racing, shaking like a scaredy leaf but everyone else is just laughing and joking and having some sort of breakfast picnic with bagels and coffee.
Stupid body making me feel like I’m on the verge of death and spiritual doom. Stupid brain, why can’t you understand there is no cliff?