Honestly, Openly Me

I like to be alone. Just not for too long. My thoughts are what keep me sane. They're also what tear me apart. My thoughts. Like little people, running around all hyper and reckless. They build me up one minute and rip me to shreds the next. I try to quiet those little monsters with bribes and promises of a better tomorrow, just like they were my children. "Please, just rest now," I beg. "Let me rest." But they don't stop. Too much time alone can be a persons undoing. Believe me, I know. I used to quiet my thoughts with shots of vodka, slamming one after the next, praying that as it burned down my throat, that fire would somehow cleanse me - cleanse my soul, change me. But the chattering little monsters only got louder, telling me all sorts of crazy all nonsense. I drank so much I started believing their lies and their whole make believe world became more and more real. To me. Isolation and hopelessness go hand in hand. But sometimes I...

It's been a few weeks since I've taken a moment to breath. To reflect. To write. Work is piling up quickly, just like all the thoughts in my head, building and building until it becomes unmanageable. I have to take better care of myself. The other day, during a rare moment of relaxation, I suddenly gasped for air. I felt like I was drowning and finally reached the surface for air. It was so strange and scary. I've never felt that kind of panic before, and I've had anxiety off and on for years. I felt like I had died for a second and suddenly came back for one more try. One more desperate attempt to get it right, not ready to call it quits. It had me in such terror for days, afraid to go to sleep, worrying if I will wake up or not. What's wrong with me? I work really hard at what I do. I love what I do. But maybe it is consuming me. Or is it something else altogether? I need to take a moment to breath, so I'm not gasping for air, unexpectedly.