Well, I’ve been housebound for the past week or so. Stupid agoraphobia. I keep trying not to keep repeating to myself, “I am this, I am that,” in relation to my various disorders. It just keeps me down and slowly breaks my spirit…
I’ve been journaling quite a bit lately. My site was down for a few days due to a stupid error made by my hosting company. I’m thinking about switching, because this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.
I’ve been toying with the idea of posting the actual things I write down in my journal. I’m not sure though. They’re so personal.
I’m always afraid that someone I know is going to find this blog, and say, “hey, I know who you are!” Depending on who it was, I’d probably just want to hide and get embarrassed. For the purpose of complete and utter free expression, I really like being anonymous. I’m still trying to become more comfortable with fully expressing myself online like this. It’s hard. I want to share my thoughts, fears, worries, wonders, experiences and inspiration with… someone. Anyone. Not via a Facebook status update, and not necessarily with my name attached. At least, not right now.
Maybe someday I’ll reveal my true identity. I’ll come out and be like, “hey guys this is who I really am! I finally finished that damned novel. Go read it.” Or something. Maybe someday I’ll show my therapist. Who knows.
I don’t really want to think about the prospect of being found out though. I just want to write anonymously, and be able to say exactly how I feel and what I think without fear of being judged by people whose opinions matter to me.
In other news… Things have been getting worse. I mentioned earlier that I’ve been homebound. I mean, I can’t even get into a car without completely losing my shit. In my journal entries, I try to be completely positive, and keep a happy mindset. It’s so rough. The attacks have gotten worse. They’ve been happening with absolutely no triggers. Nothing seems to bring them on. I’m afraid to be alone. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I’m alone.
I don’t want to kill myself, but I’m scared. I’m more afraid of getting a panic attack than I am of death itself. I’ve never felt such fear, and I’ve been in some really fucked up situations, and had some really bad things happen to me… But it feels like I want to escape my body. It feels like I want to get out of my own skin. Wherever I am, I feel like I need to be somewhere else, but that there is nowhere else that I can actually be.
I was so frantic and afraid the other day that I almost jumped out of a moving car (while I was on the way to the ER no less).
I don’t know how to control it, but I’m fighting like hell. Maybe the fighting is only making it worse.
I don’t know what I want in life. I don’t know what I can even do with myself. I feel so stuck, so lost, so alone, and utterly afraid. I’ve never felt such melancholy and despair. I feel like a teenage girl writing bad poetry; but who cares?
I’m afraid of losing my mind. I think that’s really my biggest fear. Losing my grasp on reality. When I have a panic attack it feels like I’m detached from my body. It feels like I’m walking through a dream world, but the dream world is dying, and the body that is keeping me there is withering away. I feel dehydrated, I feel aches and pains. I feel sweaty, and hot and cold all at the same time. I should probably walk more… but I am afraid to go outside… yet I want so badly to. I want so badly to go outside. I miss the world. I miss being apart of society, even though when I was “well” I rebelled so viciously against it.
I miss life. I miss the feeling of having some semblance of personal identity. I don’t want my disorders to define who I am. I’m fighting, and I’m fighting for my life. Every day.