On occasions and seemingly for no reason whatsoever, I find myself deep in this hole I tend to call “The Pit.” I dug this pit many, many years ago. I can still see the marks in the soil where my finger nails have clawed uselessly at the dirt. I see places where my feet have pushed against the sides of the packed earth and I have been able to crawl higher and higher and closer to freeing myself from the pit. I like to think I have been free from the pit, but the truth of the matter is that since I fell in, I have never been completely free. I’ll stop on a ledge to rest or to get a feel of my surroundings. Once I decide upon my next move, I either climb a little higher or slip right back down to the bottom, finding myself covered in dirt once more.
This is one of the darkest things I have written in a very long time, yet this is how anxiety feels to me.
At times, my fingers glide across the keyboard and are easily capable of producing legible words on the screen. Other times, I simply sit and stare, letting my fingers rest on the edge of the laptop and try my very hardest to come up with something to say. The whole point of a journal is to write how you feel, is it not? But what’s the point if I don’t really know how I feel? Rather, I don’t know how to put it into words.
I may come back and look at this post tomorrow and find one of the most nonsensical things I have ever written.
My brain feels like it is moving at a thousand miles per hour. I can’t sleep, but I can’t decide what I want to do otherwise. I cannot control my thoughts. Everything I want to write is trying to force itself out of my head and through my fingers in a jumbled mess.
Let me sum it up better with some comics I have found. Comics are nice, right?