It’s the creeping paralysis I hate.
The hovering tears, the sweat-drenched palms.
I’ve developed a twitch in my right eye. It jerks the thin skin of my eyelid as though it is a fish on a hook.
I feel nauseous and awful. Incompetent, stupid and completely inadequate at life.
The day passes, minutes sliding by like oily beads along a string. Too many days expire where I don’t even try. Where I think I will start after breakfast, when I’ve had another coffee. In the afternoon. Sometime soon. Usually I sit with my book, my face salty with tears as I try to hide amongst plots and characters set far away, thinking that I’ll try again tomorrow.
In the evening, as sleep doesn’t come, I bolster my energies, I manufacture some enthusiasm. I plan and plot, and force a conviction that tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will see me purposeful and striding.
It is all vapour and air, smothering me into sleep even as I lie awake.
People try to be positive, but their clichés are like napalm on my skin, and it itches and burns at me as I smilingly agree that soon, soon, something must happen soon, before angling for a change of subject.
I feel sick and hungry and angry and hurt and scared and useless and hot and awful. Panic forces me from chair to kettle to bathroom mirror where I try to wash my face and talk sense to myself. When the twitching of my eyelid is remorseless, I rub savagely, wanting control over that, at least. The twitch returns.
I think back to when I was happy. When?