I’m so tired.
Not anxious. Not necessarily, anyway. Some days I am happily non-anxious in my corner of the world, eating chocolate and watching Ellen working.
But so tired.
Because anxiety is tiresome.
It’s knowing that tomorrow I might wake up and just feel out of sorts, which to most people might mean an extra morning coffee, but to me can mean a whole day of hiding in a couch fort.
It’s knowing that if I don’t wake up and just feel out of sorts, I will spend at least a portion of my day wondering whether I will become out of sorts over the course of the day.
It’s knowing that if I don’t become out of sorts over the course of the day, I will spend the evening wondering if I might wake up and just feel out of sorts.
Anxiety is perpetual. The acute anxiety makes up a comparatively small portion of my life. Acute feelings are difficult to sustain, and they come and go. The wondering, though, is permanent. The anticipation is what throws me out of bed in the morning, stricken, wondering. Will I make it through this day? Will I make it through the next day?
If I make it through fifty days, I am not getting further away from anxiety. I am getting inevitably closer to the day when it peaks again.
At the moment I am making it through hours. I watch the clock tick over them and think, I made it through that hour.
But I haven’t, really. I’ve spent an hour wondering. Waiting with my fists closed and my chest closed, on high alert in case those two minutes of agonising terror spring up.
Mostly they don’t, and before I know it I’ve spent a whole day wondering and I’m heading off to bed, wondering whether tomorrow I’ll keep wondering.