I can’t tell you what it really is

I can only tell you what it feels like…

~ Eminem, Love the Way You Lie

My anxiety is erupting in little bumps on my skin. It really didn’t have to do that to get my attention. I knew it was there – I’ve been keenly aware of it, in fact. While it hasn’t crippled me, it has convinced me to take a little rest.

Like an alcoholic without a drink, I don’t know how to sit still. My body is acting strangely and I’m uncomfortable. If I could hang my head over a toilet and purge every toxic thing inside of me, I would do it until nothing was left but the foul-tasting bile at the end of it all. If I could unzip my skin and shed the unwelcome itchiness, I would step out of it in a heartbeat.

I am not unhappy. I do not have a miserable life; on the contrary, most things are exceptional at the moment, with some minor inconveniences that appear to be wreaking havoc on my body, but not necessarily my spirit.

My Saving Grace firmly tells me to skip the idea of Xanax and become friends with the anxiety, and so I obediently find myself taking prescribed drugs for the rash, instead.

That’s it, really. I have no self-diagnosis. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I am aware of it, whatever it is. I feel it in every single cell of my body… like an obnoxious intruder, and I have no desire to hang out and get to know one another. Turn my back, avoid contact… ignore it and it will go away. Until the next time.

I feel like I should have some great spiritual insight and be able to “fix it.” But I don’t, and I don’t know how, other than to ride it out and let the medication do its thing for the bumps and the itch.

Otherwise, I am:

  • Establishing boundaries
  • Resting guiltlessly
  • Solving problems
  • Craving human touch
  • Content and quiet
  • Happy, with a pounding headache
  • Grateful and hopeful

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