I tell you I’m open and honest, and yet I can’t even be honest to myself. I want to write this feeling out of my system.
Some of the things in my life are too painful to think about, so I put it them in a box. Hiding the pain from myself is eating my soul and destroying my body, but the alternative seems worse.
Yesterday I wrote a bad poem about the box – the box with ”Don’t Panic” written on the side. Then I think I must have taken a look inside.
Since I learnt to control my panic, some time around last Christmas, I have been able to cook and eat meals, wash up, shower as often as I should, regularly launder my clothes, keep up with my friends (to an extent) and shop when I need to. For a couple of weeks after moving into my new home I even managed to go to bed at a fairly sensible time.
The downside of this is that I suffer stomach cramps and have taken to fainting. I had a horrible fluttery feeling in my stomach and chest when I woke up this morning, and the thought of what I’m meant to be doing today has made it worse.
I’m supposed to be going to meet family members who are in the area, and it should be a treat, but I can’t leave my flat. I want to, but I can’t. Usually when I feel this way I force myself to go out, but today it isn’t possible.
I would have to catch a bus, and go to a town 10 miles away. I can’t even face leaving the flat.
I considered just going outside and doing some gardening. But I can’t.
I need to take my laundry downstairs, but people may try to talk to me. Worse than that, I may faint in front of them.
I have to take myself in hand. I’ve fought it off before, and I can do it again.
I will wash my clothes. I’m going to post this and then I’ll go down to the laundry room.
And then maybe I’ll go outside.
© Jane Paterson Basil