Nearly Eight Inches

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing is because my anxiety has been high. Like, real high. Which I attributed to, you know, lifelong mental illness. I am rarely stuck there these days, anxious in a way I can’t identify or resolve, but it’s a place that feels familar.

Turns out my blood pressure spent some time in the “severe anxiety” section of the chart, and I was feeling terrible not because my brain is fried but because I was dying. My life is complicated sometimes; and some people’s obvious sign of distress is another person’s “hard day”.

So I medicated my BP and I feel much better. I will definitely check my pressure next time my anxiety gets high. Besides not wanting to die it’s cool to just turn off a piece of anxiety. I wish some drug worked for the way I usually feel, and not just when my heart is trying to kill me.

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I learned a thing about the shape I want these to be. Let’s see if I can make a couple happen with that knowledge. Let’s see if if I can find some stories that stand under their own weight, without a rhythm to hold them in place. Let’s see if I can find a place to stand where all the Yous point in the same direction.

ZiB

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Sent from a phone.

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