I’m sitting on my bed, crying because all the floors in my parents’ house are tile, which is a problem because I want to sit and be as small as possible but I can’t because tile hurts differently than carpet.
I’m crying because this is the second, no, third anxiety attack I’ve had in a 24-hour period, I’ve been awake for 20 of those hours, and my body cannot relax.
I’m crying because I had a great, long interview with a marvelous company last week and I’m afraid of calling because I don’t want to annoy them. At the same time, I don’t want them to lose interest in me, and I don’t know the balance between these two concepts.
I’m crying because if I don’t hear back from them, that means they gave the job to someone else, and what’s worse, I’ll have no idea why, what I did right, or what I could improve on, which will only fuel my disastrous anxiety-depression cycle.
I’m crying because PTSD and anxiety held me hostage today, which is a terrible thing to admit, especially as a Christian, but there it is. I have no desire to sugarcoat truth and trade it for chewable lies.
I’m crying because I don’t know what the future holds and that is terrifying.