143. Maybe it’s because I get anxious.

It’s no secret that I’m a tad high-strung, but my anxiety levels have really peaked this summer, & it’s starting to be kind of a bit of a problem.

I don’t normally like to ask for help, & I hate admitting that I’m weak or whatever, but things are getting out of control over here. It’s bad. I… I can’t do it.

I’m constantly in a state of stress–my back hurts, my head hurts, my vision is blurry, my emotions are more out of control than usual & I always seem to be grumpy. I’m wound so tight that it takes little-to-nothing to make me snap. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep, barring stolen naps at work or catatonic bus rides downtown.

As you can imagine, I am so tired, all the time. So I guzzle energy drinks & expensive lattes & eat junk food & exercise too much & buy shit I don’t need with money I definitely don’t have & wander around my house aimlessly thinking about my mile-long to-do list but being unable to check anything off of it because I can’t focus because my brain… my poor brain has been reduced to mush from months of overuse & weeks over-caffeination.

My social life has imploded because I’m either too tired to do anything or too much of an asshole to hang out with, & I’m feeling out of my depths at work because I’ve never done any of this before & I’m so afraid of messing up, or admitting I’m inexperienced, or asking for help. I’m afraid of letting my boss, & my friends, & even the cute barista who foams my soy milk to perfection in the mornings know that I’m imperfect, & I am overwhelmed, & I can’t do it all. I don’t want people to know that I don’t have it together, &, worst of all, that I never did.

I’ve been like an addict these last few months–addicted to preserving my own feeble facade of perfection & excitement & effortless chic. I’ve dug my shiny, manicured nails into this image I want to present of nonchalance, & spent hours espousing my happiness, & forcing people to take me seriously, & I’ve gotten pretty good at convincing everybody that I know exactly what I’m doing. I can almost convince myself but, like an old linoleum floor, there’s always a corner that lifts.

So this is me saying I’m not perfect, & that I’m sorry, & that, maybe, I need help.


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