It has been an interesting few days.

I feel OK, then something shifts beneath me and I’m sinking.

I feel vulnerable, frightened, wounded. I am worried and my senses are on high alert. I’m ready to protect myself, though never as prepared as one would like to be in moments like this.

I want to run, I want to battle, the dichotomy of the flight or fight response is strong.  Sometimes, I want to stay in one spot and hope no one notices. No one talks about that. The instinct can be one of the two main ones, but occasionally our minds do neither, and we freeze.

So, I’m frozen in the quicksand. I’m not all the way out, but I’m finding a way to be steady enough to not descend deeper.


Sometimes you are filled with fear.

Sometimes you’re being attacked, someone is trying to hurt you, although not in the obvious physical way. This is more frightening, because the intent is harm, and the weapon is your own words and information. It is like they’re using you against you. Their goal is destruction, and for a while, you wonder if they’ve succeeded.

You try to roll with the punches, to not let it affect you. You can’t. You hide, you panic. You wonder how to move forward and through your days without looking over your shoulder.

Or looking in your inbox.

Or looking in the corners of your home.


Like a force from within, I am compelled by it. This desire.

It rises slowly, then gains speed quickly, much like the waters nearby with the runoff from the melting mountain snow. It changes me. My skin tingles, my senses heighten. The world suddenly seems more intense and I want to experience everything.

I want to bite his skin, I want to feel the heat of his body. I want to get lost in kisses that envelop my mouth. I want to run my hands along him, finding the places that elicit a laugh, a groan, a sigh, a whimper.

I feel my body humming, my pulse beating. I feel stronger, more beautiful, powerful.


We’re all broken, we all have some flaws.

At what point does the damage become us? I am damaged. I have a hard time trusting new people, and opening up to those I’m supposed to trust.

I see others as damaged, but it’s those imperfections that draw me in. Like light hitting shards of glass and reflecting, I see myself in the pieces blemished by life. I see hope. I see beauty.

Forced out

I’m trying to ensure that I get myself out of my shell lately. I’ve pushed myself to do things I don’t want to do. I’ve decided to meet the people I’ve been meaning to meet for a while. I’ve taken the opportunities sent my way.

I’m hoping to keep pushing myself, because I enjoy the challenge. Because I need that extra stimulation right now.

When I’m feeling anxious, I need to force myself out of my comfort zone.


It is hard to ask for help. Hard to admit you need some. I do.

I can deal with melancholy and sadness. I can deal with the weirdness in sleep patterns, the pain. What gets me is the forgetfulness that plagues me lately. I’ve dealt with depression before, but never like this. I’m leaving doors unlocked, burners on the stove get turned down, but not off; I forget things I wanted to do, I forget where I’m going when I drive.

This scares me. It scares me way more than the anxiety I feel out in public or meeting new people.

I’ve thought about help, but it has to wait. Non-insured visits range from $60-150 per session from what I’ve found and once a month (or less) isn’t going to work for me. There may be other options, but with waiting lists of 4 months, they aren’t viable ones.

So, I vent here, I lean on D and I try very hard to not let myself get overwhelmed by my feelings.


I have this embarrassing problem with my hands. Only diagnosed formally last year, I’ve struggled with it on and off for about ten years. I get a couple of bumps on the backside of my hand, near my wrists and barely notice them. Then they start to itch, and I try not to scratch. Within a couple of days, my hands are red and swollen and I want to hide them in gloves.

It doesn’t happen too frequently, but enough to make me wish it didn’t. I get nervous handing someone something, as if they’ll notice and treat me like I’ve got some contagious disease. Dermatologists have diagnosed me with a number of dye and fragrance allergies, as well as extreme photosensitivity and I avoid these things, but still… bumpy.

I finally discovered that stress brings them out and stress makes it worse. It’s a type of eczema caused by stress and exacerbated by sun, allergies and more stress. You can avoid lots of things, but I can’t seem to avoid stress; not completely. I can learn to control it better, and I think I have, but still these bumps plague me when things get a little crazy.

I find it fitting. I used to keep things inside. For the most part, I no longer do, and yet I still have a physical manifestation of stress showing in a place that’s difficult to hide.