Sometimes I wonder if I’m going mad.
The world unravels and spins before us, but just beyond reach. There is a shortness of breath. The sky is falling! The maw of the abyss yawns beneath our feet!
How can we possibly survive?
That is the chorus I hear around me. I feel the tightness as I hold my own breath. I flinch at the slightest provocation, my sensitivity screaming in my nerves and between my ears.
The lights of the ER are too bright, the droning of Dr. Phil on its TV screen unbearable to my throbbing head. I leave before receiving treatment, unable to take another hour in that bright loud torment.
I receive massage from an energy worker, and it helps. I put on Brandi Carlile’s heart-wrenching album By The Way, I Forgive You, slide into the almost-too-hot bath, and let the epiphanies wash over and into me. I gasp with knowing.
I’m tired of the veneer of sanity. I’m tired of the way things go. I’m tired of the auto-response Fine, I’m fine.
My fingers itch for the keyboard, for the PUBLISH button. I miss blogging. I wish to return to this medium, but I am tired of listicles and how-to and Useful, Polished, Perfect.
I want to write wild and rambling. I want to pull myself to my feet. I want to share with you the pacing feeling in my legs, the urgency of late-night sleeplessness.
It is late February, 2019. Chiron, the Wounded Healer, has moved into my own sign of Aries. Uranus, the Chaotic Rebel, is about to move out of Aries and into my other sign of Taurus. I feel revitalized; I feel galvanized; I feel all kind of -ized. My teeth ache to rip into the festering stitches, tear open the throbbing wounds, let in air and sight to that which has been hidden for too long, too long.
I’m ready. I’m unsteady and I’m afraid and I’m here, shaky and standing. I’ll sit if I have to. I’ll crawl.
It’s time to heal.