Get in the car. Get up, get in the car. Drive home. You’re fine. For fucks sake GET UP NOW!
I’m sure I’m going to pass out or throw up and I don’t know which but I’ve already overstayed my welcome and I can’t move but I must move. Guilt and shame and self-hate—why are you like this, you are awful—flood my mind and on top of that I suddenly begin to feel like I’m going to have yet another panic attack. Fucking fantastic. You are a shit show.
I needed therapy to make it through the long weekend. I reached out, I received kind words and help. So much progress, right!? However, in a turn of events, after feeling loved, protected, and relieved, I retreated to paralyzed little-me: fearful there would be some sort of backlash for this emotional trauma marathon I’m running.
This isn’t allowed. What are you scared for? Stop being dramatic.
It affected me so much I had to pull over to throw up on the side of the road on my way home. Seriously? What is wrong with you?!
Sometimes I (little-me) went to bed, enough times that I can remember specific fears and thoughts over it, afraid I’d die in my sleep. Anxiety? Yes. Dramatic fear? Maybe. Probably. Regardless the point is: I felt very unsafe. My body has been curled up in a ball under as many blankets as possible for my entire life.
I am walking through it. I am safe now. I am protected now. I am loved now. I am surviving now. I’m told there is another side, a lively one, that I will get to if I just keep going. I half believe that (depression says I’ll never make it out alive).
I feel physically beat up. Everything hurts. And little-me just wants to be connected to safety all the time. If my 4-year-old felt this way I’d never let her out of my sight until she felt ok. I’m having a hard time being that for myself.