lost in paris

listening to tom misch. wishing i could get everything down that’s in my head and being frustrated that i can’t . wound up . pent up . when i’m at home i feel like i’m ill . like i have to act as though there’s something wrong with me, which there is, but i have to fall into the caring arms of other people in order to allow them to do their jobs because they’re probably worried about me and tears fill their eyes when they see me because no one really does these days but i like it that way . it doesn’t make sense and it’s not the right thing to do but i do it anyway because it’s what gets me through even though the consequences are probably worse than i imagine . i get tired of having everything affect me and having to pretend that it doesn’t because what would they think? i can’t be that person . i don’t want them to think of me like that . i don’t want to become someone like everyone else, a grey cloud of doom and responsibility . something that needs to be tamed and trod around carefully, like a wild animal . i don’t like the precedent that i’m setting for myself but there’s a lot of things i haven’t healed from and it’s only as time goes on and i experience new things that i realise it more and more . and i can’t lie when i’m on the phone, you ask me something and i haven’t made up a story i can tell yet so the line falls flat and then i hate myself for that too because what will you think . i try but sometimes it’s not enough . i imagine you putting the phone down and thinking you can’t tell me anything or do anything because i’m just this big burden that gets triggered at any change in routine or phrase . can you do anything right? probably not but i’m still trying to figure out whose fault that is . i have these sad ideas and my mind tries to find everything it can in order to support them, trying to prove myself right, though what that gains me i don’t know . it gains me illness, and nothing else. this underlying anxiety sizzling under the surface watching me slowly poison myself and my mind . that’s what it feels like . poison . yet still i do it anyway .

2 thoughts on “lost in paris

  1. I am constantly in awe of your authenticity. I think what I’m learning is that Anxiety isn’t a symptom necessarily. It’s its own thing, and it breeds other symptoms which can serve it. Keep talking it out. Keep writing it out. It’s okay to be not okay… and it’s okay to be okay too. You don’t owe anyone any part of you. Keep being your beautiful, real, authentic self. ❤

    Liked by 2 people

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