Repetitive Anxiety — Maybe?
Breathe. I should discuss it with my therapist. It feels good to have a therapist, an ally, if only so I can say, “My therapist advised me to dot dot dot,” and halt whomever is trying to steamroll, pressure, or force me into doing something I don’t want to do. Halt whomever is trying to make me internalize something that’s not true. Halt. Halt everything. I’m not sure for how long it’ll be effective. I’m starting to develop anxiety over whether I’ll use that phrase when it’s false and become a liar- how could I face my therapist then? But, it’s not true. I won’t do that. Not intentionally at least. Halt. I’ve already done it.
So, yeah, brace yourself for some word vomit.
I forgot what I wanted to say.
These conflicts are getting under my skin.
That’s what happens to the mind when it thinks too much. Anxiety? Maybe? I’m not so sure about anything anymore. I’ll have to accept it for what it is and that is little to nothing. I’m wasting word time because I’m nervous.
That’s how it started with you. I believe. Beginning in the middle, I had a thought that I’d have an urge to write you. I had no urge to write you, mind you, couldn’t imagine I would. What would I say? Why would I say it? How could I? But the thought came and with that a feeling of ominous doom: My Death. you=death. If I write you, I will die. Don’t do it.
I taunt myself in my head, malicious me. I tell myself I’ll write you. Sometimes in just a whisper. In all times fear responds — a spontaneous ice shower. “No!” it says, “You’ll die!” It’s the worst kind of alive.
Death be damned, it’s not the point. The point is I’m annoyed that writing you could be the catalyst of my death. Such power. And I didn’t even want to write you! Nonsense. This is the type of thing that ordinarily only the most besotted of lovers would have the patience to read, but I’m not keen to concern myself with your feelings right now. Thanks for reading so far. I do care about your feelings.
It’s just, I have a lot to hash out with my therapist and this, whatever this is, would be silly to waste time on. I already died anyway.
Maybe I need to die again? I’m aware of people’s needs sometimes and sometimes I subconsciously try to fulfill them because my heart’s harmonious. They’ll need to know why you’re writing them because this is a nightmare for them. Be extra foolish and quench their anxiety. Halt. Am I lying?
I could be off-base, but that probably made you mortified. Or it made me mortified?
There’s a time and place for the imagination. I don’t want to delineate it. I want to explain in an obfuscating manner that I need to write you to detonate dissonance. 💥
Boom. Send your warm regards if the death wasn’t metaphorical after all. (Joke.)
