I’m listening to Abbath. The tape was still in the deck so it’s a good place to start. The anxiety is welling up. My stomach feels like gravity is gone and my chest has tightened. My wife is downtown with one of the kids for the day. I’m home with the other two kids. I always feel anxious when family members are out but this is where the plot thickens today. I’m going to go without weed until my wife is home. No relaxing or feeling better easily. No dulling the physical symptoms. Normal people cope with these things, so why can’t I? I should do everything everyone else does and be able to suffer the internal responses with dignity. Just suck it up and deal with it. So what if one or two things in a day seems overwhelming? Do five. So what if I sweat, shake and stutter? That’s not abnormal, that’s coping. So what if I cry? Shame is my own judgement of myself. Lots of people shed tears in public for no obvious reason, right? So what if crowded noisy places scramble my brain? So what if I’m not present? So what if I’m not enjoying something because I’m too worried about my surroundings and those in them? So what if I’m ‘triggered’? So fucking what, right?

Recovery is a strange process. Purposely hurting myself and making myself anxious to develop resiliency against being hurt and anxious. I’m not doing this often enough for long enough. Do I even want to get better? I don’t fill my schedule with countless activities. I can’t get into exercising. I don’t socialize enough. I don’t play outside enough. I’m dulled by drugs and unengaged. Every day I drink my coffee from the same mug. It has a picture of an ambulance on it. Suck it up buttercup, or just admit defeat. How long can I keep pretending I’m something I’m not anymore? You either get a pulse back or you get pronounced. The resuscitation effort doesn’t go on forever, demons be damned.

I’m listening to Grand Belial’s Key now. The world outside is sunny and hot. Yuck. My hippy aroma-therapy anxiety stuff has filled my nostrils. If I stop smoking pot everything will get better. It’s not the mental illness and the circumstances around it, it’s the devil’s lettuce. Going out and being triggered will become fun and engaging, especially with no relief afterword. I’ll find a love for things I never liked and I’ll want to do them daily. All the happy feelings will come back and stay, outweighing the bad. The sights, sounds and smells in my fucking head will stop. I’ll become bright-eyed and vibrant. Might as well just give up the weed. Again. This time will be different. What have I got to lose? Or more to the point, what have I got to prove?

If the beginning is not enough then where do I start?