Here’s a quick little bit about living with anxiety and depression. It’s semi-autobiographical, but definitely fiction.
Title: On Alert
Word Count: 314
It is seven a.m. and my alarm shocks me awake. I roll out of bed, put on my bra—damnable thing—and pad my way to the bathroom. Toilet, wash hands, deodorant. Time to get dressed; pants, t-shirt, socks, shoes. I pull a cap low over my eyes and hope I do not draw too much attention. Maybe if I put on some make up, paint my face in camouflage prisms, I might be able to look the world in the eye. But, I don’t have time. The nights are long and I don’t sleep well anymore. It’s been so long, I wonder if I ever did. Those extra minutes of rest are precious few, so instead I keep my head down.
I spend my day dodging people, assessing and reassessing my surroundings. Someone is staring at me. I bed down to look for something in my bag, but really I’m checking my outfit to make sure everything looks okay. It does. I pull out my phone and act like I’m scrolling through this app or that, while checking my face in the forward camera. Nothing is amiss. He’s still staring. It unnerves me. He’s cute; he must think I’m a freak.
My neuroses are written all over my face. My heart slams in my chest. My throat tightens. Words don’t come when people speak to me, when people ask me things. I give only quiet, one-word answers and I can hear their thoughts, their judgements.
Unsocial. Stuck-up. Bitchy.
My body is heavy when I return home. I make lists of things which need to be done, but today has taken so much out of me. I barely have the energy to turn on the TV anymore. It hangs on the wall, gathering dust, like a big, black void where my life used to be.
I am so afraid.
I am so lonely.
This wasn’t what I intended to write, but it’s what came out. Which seems kind of odd, because (at the time of writing this) I’m actually feeling pretty good. I’m coming off my PMS nightmare and I feel ready to take on the world. Ish.