No joke

I feel like life just gave me a defect notice.

I've just had a crappy afternoon get bad. Really bad. And part of it is my fault and part of it just life being a contrary, belligerent, malevolent minx.

And I can't even eat my way out of it.

I remember when I used to be able to eat and eat and eat and my serotonin levels would fake-rise for a while to make me forget how to feel.

And that beautiful moment between forgetting the anxiety and the despair and the fear, and being swallowed whole by guilt and self loathing, that is the home I seek now.

But I know that food, not matter what sort, wont fix it.

But nor can I walk/ talk/ write my way out of these feelings.

My shrink often asks me if I could 'sit' with them.

But to let these feeling settle about me is like inviting necrosis into my heart.

I really don't want to sit still and 'feel' the pain. I just can't. I wont. I don't want to.

It's too overwhelming. To awful. To shocking.

I want the horror to be taken away by another. Someone. Anyone. I am not enough to cope with this. I'm stupid and fat and lazy. Well, I'm not fat. I mean, I don't feel fat.

But I do feel helpless and hopeless.

If food has deserted me what now? If chocolate can no longer give me the fix I need, where can I find relief? Do you know someone who pimps happiness? 

...

    .....

A Post Script: 

I've sat here for a little while looking at a few facebook pictures from a town I used to live in, a town I'm very fond of. A town where I found out a lot about me, and the sort of woman I was becoming.

And I searched the thesaurus for synonyms for, well, unprintable nouns relating to prostitution (not to do with the town I lived in).

And I thought about people, not matter how much you love them, and they love you, that you need to stand back, and see them whole against the sky (thank you Rilke and DH). That you can't expect others to magic away your problems. Just like food doesn't fix it, neither can other people. Part of that same coin is that one must learn how to be vulnerable and a tough cookie all at the same time.

And you know what happened? Somewhere in all of that thinking, the grenade made of barred wire and the rotting flesh of good intentions, somewhere somehow it became a soft core of despondency.  Sans chocolate. Sans hot chips. Sans food. Sans a fairy godmother or the gentle cooing of a mate. It's still there, the anxiety ball, but it's more blue than bitter. More heavy heart that hatred. 

You can't change people. You can't change the world.

But you can be the change you wish to see. (thank you Gandhi)

Now, I must hope back in the car and go and do some repair and reconnaissance. 

Oh, and did you notice, I think I did write myself out of a hellishly big panic attack, I seem to have shrunk it from malignant to benign. I will need a bowl of nourishing zucchini and white bean soup, a bath, and perhaps a chat to my best fried before I go to bed (early). But you know, one can't fix Rome in a day.