I hate the times when I think I have my anxiety under control and I realize that… I don’t. I feel like I’m crashing into the ground way too fast and I don’t know how to make it stop or slow down. I hate when it bubbles over and takes control. Of my feelings. Of my thoughts. Of my actions. And all I can do is sit back and watch because I’m curled up somewhere in the corner of my mind and I don’t know what to do.
I use to be okay with having too much to do at one time. It use to drive me. I use to live for this feeling. But that was before OCD. That was before everything changed.
And it feels like ever since OCD crept into my mind I haven’t been me. I feel like my mind is stuck in jello. The part that isn’t stuck in a blur are bits and pieces of who I use to be. The creative, the silly, the fearless, the carefree, the thinker, the writer, the daring… but it’s only very small pieces that manage to not be touched but not enough pieces to make a difference.
I still get sad sometimes, but it’s not the same. Instead of taking that and doing something with it — writing, graphic design, web design… instead of it being my drive… I just sit here. And sulk and feel fuckin sorry for myself. I can’t even grab it like I use to and use it to my advantage. It’s just… there. I still get angry, but I don’t flip shit. I don’t throw things and break things. I just sit here, and sulk, and feel sorry for myself. I haven’t been depressed in a long time, because it enhances my OCD and as soon as something threatens to depress me, I force it out of my memory. And over the last 8 years, I’ve gotten good at doing that. The old me would had loved to know how to do this. Even if it killed who she is. It’s not worth it.
I remember people, I remember bits and pieces of things, but I don’t remember anything else. I don’t remember how people made me feel. I don’t remember what people said. I just remember faces and places and events. And that’s it. Even when I read back to things I’ve long forgotten, I don’t feel anything.
And it kills me.
Zel is dead. I can’t make her come back. And I wish she would. Because the lack of being able to be creative? It makes life so much more empty than it ever was with all the pain I use to carry around with me.