I’m standing on the last, narrow step before the sudden drop into the abyss. Or maybe I’ve already fallen. I can’t really tell. And that’s the tricky thing about anxiety. And whatever else might be going on in my head. Some days are okay. Then, like clockwork on the 14th-or-so day, the darkness rolls in. Whatever energy I put into avoiding a full-blown tantrum of angry, emotional outburst is gone. It can’t be contained. Everything
I’m not much of a talker but I have things to say. I find that writing is a way for me to “talk.” Despite my inconsistency, I write because I find it therapeutic. Because, like everyone else, I react to things and I have opinions, too. I have a roster of public intellectuals and writers whom I admire, and aspire to be like. My problem is that I don’t take myself seriously.