Black Sea

Sometimes I wake up really early in the morning when it’s still dark, out of a dead sleep with my heart racing and a cold sweat. I look at the clock and utter panic just paralyzes me for a second. I think, I should be at work. I’m in so much shit right now and then slowly the quiet settles into my brain. I realize that it’s my night off, I don’t have to be at work right now. I literally have to tell myself that I don’t have to be at work, that it’s okay. That I can calm down. Sometimes I have to literally get up and go to my calendar, proving to myself that I don’t have to be at work.

That’s what anxiety does to you. It gets you worked up about things completely imaginary sometimes, plays on your worst fears and then laughs at you in the background as you run around trying to figure out why you’re doing what you’re doing. It’s painful, embarrassing and I feel like I’m just one careful step away from an imaginary ledge.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what Alex felt all the time before he died. Did he feel like the world was crashing down on him and he didn’t have any control over his own victimization? Is that why I understand him now, years after his death and never could then? Now that my anxiety, PTSD and depression has gotten so much worse, I feel like I need him more than ever to tell me that I’m just being stupid. That it’ll be alright and I need to stop making the worst out of dark shadows.

I don’t know really where I’m going with this one. Maybe no where, maybe that’s my life. Going no where.


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