I thought that I was in for a bout of depression recently when I started to get squirrely with the nicotine receding from my body, but lo it was not to be and instead I’ve come down with a whopping case of anxiety instead. I sure wasn’t expecting that! But it’s everywhere on me these days, crawling up the backs of my calves, worming down the collar of my shirt, my fingers hammering against the keyboard “you can’t you can’t you can’t” like a song straight from the pit of my stomach. It’s a bad case really, and I’m not sure I can see an end to it anytime soon.
I spent most of yesterday in bed, played hooky with Brian so I could unwind my nerves from the night before. A day of napping and fucking, a good dinner, a bowl smoked before bed – you would think this a perfect formula for reprogramming, destressing, coming back down to ground. And yet I woke up this morning with the same mole of insecurity digging away back there, another hole in my rational brain. And another. Another.
I worry that the neighbours will see my dying tomato plant and think I’m a bad gardener. I’m sure that the drywaller working on our house is going to break in later and steal from us. I worry about being short of money even though I well enough to get by. I’m convinced at times that Brian is only seconds away from breaking up with me. Over the weekend I figured I was pretty much on the road to completely traumatizing my step-daughter. I’m sure that if I don’t get my friend help she is going to die and that I will be responsible. I obsess about not being a good enough person, but at the same time fret that I’m being taken advantage of. etc. etc. etc. The list goes on.
It’s amazing how illogical it is, how widespread and random the fears can be. I can laugh at them even as I list them for Brian, an unending litany that spoken outloud is nothing short of ridiculous. And yet I feel them even while recognizing implausibility. I suppose that is the nature of addiction, or simply of living in a precarious mental state – it’s not rational how the mind contorts itself, the slightest alteration in routine can wobble or warp the lens that we look through. And I’m living it again, like the depression but amped to a different frequency. I think this is better though – because at least I can articulate it, see it for where it comes out of – unlike depression which fogs me in so much I can’t peer out at all.
How lucky I am then to have a partner who has been so supportive in these last couple of weeks, perhaps slightly worried at times, but unfailingly there while I work this habit out of my system. It’s a strange time, but not awful even so, because I’ve got safety in the arms of my lover, in the warmth of my home. I’ll work it out. I’m sure I will soon.