Try not to feel sick.
Which illness today? The one that never goes away or that same stomach bug I’ve had? I can’t tell the difference.
Don’t drink coffee. It’ll tip you over the edge.
But as I work, I become a sleepwalker. I have no energy talking to my tables. It’s pathetic.
I keep thinking about him coming back and it induces the same feelings as last winter. Distance is hard. I don’t know how people can do it.
Maybe because for him, coming back here isn’t coming home. I fear that it never will be. That here isn’t enough for him.
Part of me knows that’s true too. The extent of it though I don’t know.
A friend asked me how I was holding up. How I was handling the whole distance thing. I found it odd that someone was asking me this now. The more I thought about it though, the more it struck me that no one had asked me how I was handling it when he left or while he’s been gone except for my therapist. And I pay her to do that. No, this friend was the only person to ask me.
I was pretty honest.
I’m not well. I’m so scared right now. I’m so incredibly scared. My job is falling apart. People are quitting right and left so I’m having to pick up more hours when I’m already so burnt out on the place. It’s showing there, too. Two full blown panic attacks at work in a span of two weeks when I hadn’t had one there all summer? That’s something. It’s not like they can do anything about it though. My doctors just say it’s expected for me to have these panic attacks and tell me I’m okay to keep working. We have so few people to work too that they have no choice but to give me hours.
Then, my coworkers are bitter towards me when they have to cover my shifts because I have to leave due to a panic attack. They tell me I owe them. As if I didn’t have enough guilt or worry to carry me on to the next panic attack. I think how I only have to work this week, then I’m supposed to have next week off, then classes start. But then more panic.
And then I start thinking about my next break and how it isn’t going to be a break. It’ll be a vacation and I’m happy to go to Hong Kong, don’t get me wrong. I’m still just so vulnerable to panic attacks though. Where the fuck am I going?
I’m going to vacation on one of the hardest holidays for me to get through so hard that I often request to work or tell my family I’m sick because I can’t stand being around them for too long to a foreign place all the way across the world with unfamiliar people that all speak a completely different language and many are supposedly hopeful that I’ll know some of the language by the time I get there so conversing will be easier for them when I’m just going to be focusing on not having a mental breakdown much like the one I’m currently having and hope to something that I don’t relapse and shit this was such a terrible idea.
I supposed to be doing things right. I supposed to get my act together. I’m supposed to just live normally.
What the fuck is normal?
My idea is not having this intense choking sensation every time you think about meeting your boyfriend’s extended family. My idea is not hyperventilating when you get sat 6 tables including a party table and one of your coworkers refuses one simple request at work. My idea is not trying to fall asleep for over 2 hours only to have thoughts like this tear your mind to shreds until you start having a mental breakdown.
It’s mental stability.
People don’t understand how little control over this I have and I how much I despise it. How I’ve hated it so much I grew to hate myself and was ready to kill myself. How it’s making me question if I need to go to the hospital right now in fear of myself.
This isn’t life. This is hell.
This is existence in intense fear.
It doesn’t help that I don’t have anyone to talk to about it either. I write about it. I always have. And what kind of sucks too is not a single person has ever asked me to come to them when I feel like this. Not a single person that I have opened up to enough. And it makes me trust people less. It makes me never want to tell anyone anything. It took me forever with my therapist. But she’s not on call. I have to ride these panic attacks and mental breakdowns by myself. Just like I always have.
Sorry for the self-pity rant. I’m just pretty done with this… I don’t even know what to call it.
I’m just scared.
Scared that things are gonna get really bad again. Now that some people know about it and how bad it is, I feel like people just want to know the surface. Know why I am the way I am. What makes me tick. When they know, the leave it to observe.
Watch me explode, my friends.