My latest anxiety crash happened about a month ago, and I’m still a bit shaky from it. My handwriting looks like a penmanship earthquake. I’m in a bad mood all of the time. Fatigued. A bit wobbly on my feet. I try to remember the proverb from the Bible: “Weeping endureth for a night, but joy comes in the morning”. But the proverb doesn’t say how long the night lasts. Days? Weeks? Months? Years?
How about forever, which is what it feels like now. Except for a precious little calico cat name Luna, the night might feel permanent. I took Luna to babysit for a few days and ended up becoming her new mommy. She’s chubby, which is great for her greatest joy—rolling. She must hold a world record for rolling back and forth, stopping from time to time to lick her tummy. She pauses from time to time to see if I’m watching. I always am.
Fatigue goes with anxiety, which causes more anxiety.
Looks like I’m locked in to a squirrel cage existence.
Poor me.
No comments:
Post a Comment