Toxic

I am toxic; I am terminally anxious. I am neurotic. I am tired.

I am tired of missing out or fending off, worrying endlessly about everything under the sun.

I want quiet, and I want peace, I want calm, I want mine.

It is now a whole year since my hair was falling out due to rapid weight loss, brought on by one of my worst episodes of panic.

It has been a year since I found out I was being laid off, and since the house was under agreement. I was so devastated this time last year.

This summer wasn’t much better. It was basically spent holed up in my apartment with the AC blasting, napping, and working.

But I laughed more this year, ate again, and am chubby again.

Fat and happy-ish.

I am employed again, and they are both pretty good gigs.

I have a few bucks. I am relatively safe.

But, nothing feels whole. Nothing feels quite right, and the world outside is spinning in such a way that it is like I always knew the other shoe would drop, and here I am proven correct. And I must admit there is a weird sense of righteousness in that, I am not proud of it, but it is there.

And still, I feel like I should be enjoying more, or having soirees or picnics in the park, and I should be delighted, dancing, traveling, and living some grand life (that I never lived). I don’t even like parties.