It comes on so fast.
And then I’m not.
I’m really not.
It’s like liquid mercury reaching out and sliding through me. Becoming me.
I can feel it. The pouring. Warm suffocation.
Kelly once told me she worried about me because my normal is so borderline. I think about that randomly. I even thought about it this week. I overcome it–somehow–so often that it’s easy to forget. It’s easy to imagine it’s no big deal. That it’s navigable.
But I left the house to get R and I was okay. And then I was not. I was consumed with the slippery tentacles. The squeezing in my chest. The liquid slipping past eyelashes. The all consuming vast nothingness.
I kept hearing Beth say I’m doing good work and that voice telling me it’s a good lie. That the work isn’t real. That I hide too much to make progress. That I won’t ever unearth it. That I’ll never be able to differentiate between compartmentalizing and progress.
That there isn’t more than the emptiness.
And me–my voice and my mind–I can only….experience the darkness.
And know it’ll pass. Know I’m not okay. Know I’m not me and I have to wait it out. Know that I am fucking drowning. Know that it feels like a fucking split personality. Know that I have to bide my time. Know that I have to fight if the darkness wants to take action along with the thoughts.
It is fucking exhausting.