I texted JB as usual when shit like this happens. Neurological shit that convinces me I’m dying. That renders me utterly fucked up until someone reassures me this is not serious. She said to check in with my “parts.” What are my “parts” saying?
I’m scared I’m dying.
Die, motherfucker. Be done with it.
I don’t understand what’s happening and I need to understand it in order to feel safe.
I don’t feel safe.
I’m alone.
I’m lonely.
Do I even matter?
How is this progress?
*panics* *panics* *panics*
This is such a far cry from last year, when I had things I was looking forward to. When I was happy. But I feel like I’m carrying so much baggage right now that I don’t have the energy to be happy. I’m just worn the fuck out. Last year, I felt like I had a future. This year? Not so much. I feel frustrated and unfulfilled. I feel pointless. Every day is more or less the same. What’s my raison d’etre? I don’t have one and that, my friends, is the biggest problem.
I’m trying to infuse meaning into my life. A through-line that undergirds my will. Scaffolding.
So that I don’t get to the point where I’m hanging on by a thread. So that there’s some cushioning.
I need some fucking cushioning.