22 years, just me and you, baby.

They say that a person can get used to almost anything. They say that time heals all wounds. They also say survival of the fittest.

My coworker showed me something the other day; he asked me what my age is (22) and he got a ruler and pulled the tape out until it was 22 inches long. We then chatted about my lifestyle and habits for a few moments and tried to suss out an approximate natural age of death. After factoring in stress from anxiety, he decided that 80 was a generous number (though I'm not so sure!) and pulled the tape out further until it was 80 inches long. "See?" he said, "look how much time you still have".

And yet the phobia is of wasting it. And the annoyance stems from time wasted thinking about wasting time. And the fear comes from thinking of the time already wasted fretting over the time wasted thinking about wasting time. And so time goes. And it is not dissimilar to the feeling you get when you've let something slip from your hands but are fumbling to not have it drop to the ground and you are juggling lower and lower, desperately trying to anticipate the errant objects' seemingly unpredictable movements that are really only unpredictable because you aren't thinking about which way you toss it as you try to save it from yourself. Think. Only don't think.

Is it better to react or to anticipate? And if it is better to react (but you're a lousy "reacter" and a masterful "anticipater") can it be wise to do the less healthy thing because you're better at it? Is the feeling of satisfaction you can get from perfectly anticipating enough to forgo learning a new way of thinking that could possibly make your tape measurer longer? Or do most people just say, "fuck the tape analogy!" and then go swim after eating? I DON'T EVEN FUCKING SWIM!

So I wonder (and ruminate and obsess and theorize and hypothesize and criticize and idealize and fantasize and despise) if one can get used to anything, why then, have I not yet gotten used to this?

The Cure for the Common Panic Attack

On nights like this I can see a physical imprint my hands leave on everything I touch- a waxy panic residue, a flaky shaky energy that cascades off of every part of me in a seemingly endless supply. I can trace my pacing across the floor and my sporadic taps and twitches on doors, walls and my person.

I am aware of a more or less calm exterior despite wanting to tear my hair out. Despite wanting to cut my own flesh and rip my burning stomach out. Despite doubting my sanity and thinking in circles and losing the ability to move my eyes or lungs. Ow my sternum, my ears, my breasts, my bowels, my ribs and entrails and appetite and legs. My ass is twitching. I want to fight someone I want to choke to death. I am choking to death.

I lose my taste for life.

And I hate myself. I hate myself with a passion. I hate myself as though there's some nobility in it; as though self hatred is a redeeming quality. I hate myself in lieu of being humble. I examine my ills and feel revulsion.

I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going.

The world is out to get me.

My mother has offered to treat me with Reiki, but there is no cure for the common panic attack.