fear, my other face

June 10, 2011

Now may not be the place or the time to write this. There is a small child asleep upstairs who may wake and cry any minute, sleep is fogging my eyelids and worries sit on my head and pass judgement. In an uproarious and rowdy fashion. No, I tell a lie, there is no judgement, they only crowd and stare and mutter. They are not so lively as all that, my worries. They are just fear.

But I am used to fear. And I know where this one stems and maybe when I get back home and take my one half of a pill, one pill sliced in half with a bent pair of sewing scissors or the hard press of a knife, maybe it’ll even out after a few days.

Three things I could have done without: Grief, job stress and citalopram side-effects. I can’t help the first two but I can do something about the third. Doctor. Counsellor or clinical psychologist. Don’t drop my dosage until I lose at least one of the first two issues.

It’s raining outside and I’m breathing again, slowly. This morning was hellish. I could feel my lungs tighten. Too much going on.

I need to drown myself in slow molasses, in my own peat bog of sleepiness until I can be somewhere I can let go of things. I don’t know where that’ll be. But I am not alone and I am not helpless or hopeless. There are solutions. I remember this from university, days on the pebbled concrete (agregate, my head says) running up from the doctor’s and that powerful feeling of- relief. Knowing that I don’t have to despair by myself, unable to handle the crunch of days speeding across my bones, time a wild creature roaring past my heart, dragging it along in its wake. I’m not alone. There is support for these things. Thank God.

Thank God I learned that, back then. Thank God I know this now. Thank you, God.

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