Anxiety. Anxiety. Anxiety. Anxiety.
I am somewhat annoyed with it at the moment. When I’m not merely stuck in frozen fear of… nothing, incapable of thinking thoughts that make any sense.
Seriously, most of the time this is the best my brain can come up with. I’d do something mindful, but I can’t concentrate right now.
Today I was going to tackle a small part of the living room and move towards decluttering again. I’ve been working on my mental state so thinking it should be easier and now I feel too anxious to start, and too anxious because I’m not starting.
Insert manic laughter here.
Today I am doing nothing again. I can’t think which book to read next. I’m distracted by the messy piles – which one first? I’m distracted by my brain buzzing with nonsense.
I thought I’d update my book spreadsheet. That’s usually a calming exercise for me, but looking at the books on my Instagram feed and the thought of typing all those words…
Words. Words. Words.
(What do you read, my lord?)
… the thought of typing is so tiring. I’m typing this. Somehow freehand (freefall?) is easier.
I’m in the middle of The Wolf Wilder. I forgot. Maybe I can finish that. Maybe a bath will soothe me enough to get unstuck.
My real thoughts are more scattered than this. I am concentrating to get words out, so the focus is better.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
I used to be good at that. I used to be good at a lot of things.
At my counselling session she said I should make “I am a worthwhile human being” my mantra for the week. I’ve never had much self esteem, but when did it get so low?
Apparently writing this nonsense helps. I’m thinking. I’m focusing. I’m breathing.
Do I publish? It’s a random mess of nonsense.
Oh well, why not?