The anxiety has come again and it's tough. It's so tough. I hate the way it makes me feel, removing me from the immediacy of experience as I crawl inside my own head.
It feels as if I am carrying a very ugly ill gray creature in my belly. That. Is how it feels.
It is way too illogical and too formless to capture and release. It erases joy and anticipation. It is dread and it is constant heart-cramp. It is a soul-eater and brain-deceiver and I want it to go away.
I know it will.
I am just always so afraid after that summer those years ago when it came and stayed and stayed and stayed until I went quite mad and finally had to ask for help that it will do it again. But even then, eventually, it did go away. Mostly. It would seem to me that once anxiety has descended into your bones it is always there, or traces of it, ready to rage back with vigor and vengeance at any god-dammed time it desires. And it makes the living of life so difficult for those it has chosen to take residence in.
But we go on. We go on because there is no other choice and we wait until any particular period of exacerbation passes which we must have faith it will.