There’s a certain perversity in wasting time nursing me, assuring me of what I’m sure to be when anxiety always means adversity. The parallels drip into wishing wells, feeding selves occupied more with wellness than self, convinced of the next wealth-aligned health, a good performance still opens the wallet to my shelf. Shouldn’t we have inner peace by now? Shouldn’t it all have worked by now? Clad in gold, still had and sold, still fucking tired of all those tricks getting old.

Filling out paperwork where I have to discuss all of my failings, shortcomings and in general the things I don’t like about myself is really depressing. It requires planning to both act and recover. I cry a little. I use the things I’ve learned to soothe the reactions. I try not to get angry at myself, because despite it all I still find I sometimes do. It’s never going to feel fully okay not to work, and I think it’s always going to knot my stomach and pride whenever I have to tell someone about it. I realize I’m my own worst enemy. 

Everything in moderation.