|Writing about it takes the edge off. But the fear still lingers. It has long fingers that turn into ivy like tendrils that wrap around every thought that comes into my mind. It is like a rabid animal that turns on me when I least expect it. It is something I cannot control. Doesn't matter what I do. And it gets steadily worse.|
Who so I tell? How do I tell... without seeming like a screaming nut job? How do you explain that it gets harder and harder to leave the house, even just to do some errands? How do you explain that you can't leave your dogs (one in particular) because you've never been apart before and the anxiety of it could kill you? Who do you explain all this to who can help and not think you are either using it as an excuse or that if it's all true you need to be in a nuthouse? And who do you explain this to with no insurance? (A subtle but valid point.)
So I write and get as much of the poison contained on the page. I put in quarantine. But for some reason I have to display it to the world. Maybe there are others out there like me. Other people who feel like they are slowly losing everything, slowly drowning in their own fear and can't swim. Maybe we can keep each other afloat.