Waiting. Waiting. And Waiting Some More

You know that feeling you get when everything seems okay? Like, peaceful? Good, even? Most people, I assume, this is the norm for. But for people with anxiety–nope, I’m not going to generalize–for me, it’s scary.

Things have been really good in my world lately. I mean, the weather has sucked and my high schoolers have this weird spring fever that’s caused by copious amounts of snow in April that leads to general bad attitudes and misbehavior, but in general things have been good.

I’ve had more energy the last five days than I have in months. I’ve kept up on housework, homework. My husband and I have been in a pretty decent place, including watching movies with no phones, and cuddling. (Sounds simple, but it’s a big deal for us. Things had been…tense.)  My child is well, obstinate, but I’m not beating myself up around it.

So. Yeah. Things have been really solid lately. You’d think I’d be ecstatic. I haven’t had this many days in a row that are mentally healthy decent in forever. Everything is in this like nice, real, peaceful bubble. Yes, there have been curveballs, but they haven’t thrown me totally off my game.

However. I just have this feeling that the ball is going to drop. That shit is about to hit the fan. That this lovely little warm bubble of peace is going to come crashing down around me. That everything is going to break into a million little pieces; that I’m going to break into a million little pieces.

Which…maybe is an anxious thought, but it isn’t one that is nagging at me like my normal anxious thoughts. So. In my head, obviously, that doesn’t count.

I wish though that I could let go of it. Accept it. I think, honestly, that I’ve gotten so used to living with the dark–read, anxiety and depression–that I don’t know what to do when they’re not hanging over my head.


More than anything, this is what scares the everliving shit out of me. That I’ve gotten used to it. That I’ve accepted it. Did I stop fighting? Is that why things had been so bad? Is this how I define myself now? Is this who I’ve become. Someone who goes home, lies on her couch, does the bare minimum, and just survives?

Fuck that.

I want to do more than just survive. I recognize that days are going to happen where bare minimum is all that’s possible, but I don’t want that to be my new normal. I want to fight. I want to do more. As cliché as it sounds, I want to live. I refuse to keep focusing on what could happen.

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