That could actually be a good name for a book. Or a neurotic thriller. Meanwhile, it's the story of my day and I hate it. HATE it.
I'd tried to forget this jaw clenching feeling, being on edge, feeling like I'm watching myself and waiting for me to fall apart or at least fray at the edges.
Now that I know what it's like to not be this way I don't want to go back.
But, here I am.
Could be the transition from 2 lazy weeks at the beach filled with space and quiet, empty stretches of no people, no obligations, no expectations to the insanity of the west village overwhelmed with throngs of visitors making sidewalks impassable was too extreme.
Could be that back to school rush. Two kids in two different schools plus my first year as PTA president. I don't know what I'm doing. We're starting from scratch. Turns out I'm the speaker for what we want to do and I don't want to screw up.
Could be that my parents are coming this week and sleeping on my couch because we're hosting the holidays. I have to cook for everyone, do monstrous cleaning, all during the first week of school.
Could be medical stuff people I know are struggling with. Life stuff I know people are struggling with. Apartment stuff. Job stuff. Relationship stuff. And while I desperately wish I could help, I can't.
I'm petrified I'm going to fall over the edge again. I'm terrified the meds aren't working anymore. I'm afraid I'll plunge back into that lost place where I was afraid to move to feel to think.
I hate this part of me. I don't care if it's where creativity or drive comes from. Nothing's worth feeling this way.