Hot Pink Crunch has been a big hot mess for the last year.
When I wrote about anxiety back in July 2016, I thought I knew what I was talking about. I thought I really knew anxiety. And maybe I did.
But it got much much worse.
Somewhere between summer and fall, my anxiety took a crowbar and beat me senseless. Then it dug its claws into my chest and wouldn’t let go. Months raced by me as I was slowly crushed to death. Non-anxious moments came fewer and far between.
I tried to write about what I was experiencing. I wanted to document it! I wanted to put it into words so that everyone could understand. I wanted to record it so that later, when things weren’t so bad, I could remember what it was like and stop that awful self-rationalization that tells me that there really isn’t anything wrong with me and I’m just exaggerating and being dramatic when I feel "off".
I asphyxiated on the words each and every time. They choked me. This was as far as I got on September 12th:
It’s a feeling that starts in my chest more often than not. Sometimes in my stomach.
It’s an unravelling feeling. An ungluing. The pieces are coming apart. I am coming undone. My organs are drifting away from each other. They are spiraling out of control.
Maybe my anxiety is something that I can’t properly document. It’s an elusive yeti monster. It escapes my grasp every time I reach for it.
But I’m still going to try to capture it for you.
In bits and pieces, in blurry photographs of reality, I will reveal it.
