I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth. I’d be chewing the inside of my cheeks. Scratches on my legs and shoulders. Seven outfit changes and my face dripping sweat. It was back.
I pushed myself out the door and through my work day. Part of me wanting to admit I wasn’t okay and part of me reveling in the fact that at this place, this now place no one knew me as sick. Damaged. Broken. Fractured. Hurt.
I couldn’t decide what it was I wanted or what I needed. I was out of my “in case of emergency” pills and I hadn’t received my new insurance information to get more. I took off all my clothes and laid in bed, utterly exhausted from dragging myself through the day.
I wondered if I made a mistake by accepting my new job. I shook that idea off. I hadn’t. I just had to learn to manage it all. To balance it all. It was about learning to live with anxiety. To not let it run my life and overtake me as it had before. I knew better now, surely.
I am never going to be the same again. And for once I can exhale the pressure of feeling like I have to.