Some days I feel unstoppable.
Other days… I don’t recognize myself.
I’m a nut job, and it doesn’t matter.
I’ve written about this a lot—how some days the anxiety is just so overwhelming.
I have these days and days of highs, where I feel so good and life is just wonderful.
I’m so happy.
And then, it’s replaced by days and days of hopelessness.
Why?
Is it post traumatic stress disorder?
I don’t know.
And I really don’t even know what that means.
How could this be possible? Isn’t that for truly dramatic events?
Has all these years of trauma and tragedy made me a nut job?
Again, I don’t know. I have never been told so.
But, not so many years ago they had me on 4 pills for anxiety.
Until one day I finally had enough.
I’m done.
No more pills.
I still have anxiety.
Anger.
These days of hopelessness.
I hate traffic.
And crowds.
Just people in general, really.
I can’t get focused.
I don’t want to work.
I hate long lines.
I’m so frustrated with these—people that I don’t even know.
It makes me sad.
I don’t want to be mad.
Yet, I am.
Sunday, I wanted some flowers for my empty pot. I made the 2 mile drive to Home Depot.
Four red lights and ten minutes later, I’m so frustrated—full of anxiety—searching for an empty spot in a lot full of cars…
I finally make it inside to see fifteen customers lined up at the register.
Nope.
Hell no.
Fuck that pot.
All I want is to be left alone.
Drama free.
Yet, I rarely find it.
It’s never occurred to me that something like PTSD could actually happen to me.
Isn’t that for veterans? That guy or girl that saw terrible, unspeakable things?
Yet, I too have experienced terrible things.
Unspeakable pain.
Chest cracked open.
Ears ringing.
For years.
Years of infusions, needles, tests, surgeries—and all the wheelchairs and walkers.
The fear of it happening again.
‘I sigh.’
I mean, what does my medical chart say?
Bat shit crazy dude.
If it doesn’t, I think it should.
How do I fix this?
How do you fix yourself when no one seems to notice—or says, you need help?
I don’t know.
And I definitely don’t know what to say.
How do I say—I need help?
‘I sigh.’
And when I think about it, I guess it doesn’t matter.
I’m alive.
I feel good.
And I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.
I know what I don’t want—even though I have no clue where to go from here.
I also know I don’t want another doctor thrown into this mix.
I can’t see myself sitting on a couch doing… this.
Telling somebody about my problems—this craziness that lives in my head.
Besides, I think that’s what I’m already doing—I’m writing it down.
I’m throwing my cards on the table, saying fuck it…
I’m done.
I just don’t care anymore.
I don’t care who knows.
And I don’t care what they think.
It doesn’t matter.
