It’s really stupid, but I’ve been awake all night stewing on that Urgent Care visit. I feel like what I wrote. I keep thinking I’m going to go to this new place and no one will believe me. Or they’re going to tell me to take the allergy pills and shut up. I need to go, but I’m dreading it. I even heard them saying in the hallway that my back is fine. They never so much as examined me.
Today, all day, I was thinking how I’m going to go to this other place in a few weeks and they’re going to say there’s nothing wrong, just like they did before. I keep panicking when I think about HR getting my letter, then me not getting a diagnosis when I go to this new place, then they will disregard what I’ve said. I don’t even know if I want to submit the letter because I think they’ll just turn me into a villain. I was cursing when I left (not at anyone), and all those people were standing there, and they’re just going to say I am the asshole and it’s not that P.A.s fault.
I just feel like everything is my fault all the time. It’s like I believe I don’t have the right to think someone else is wrong, even when I know they are. I hate feeling constantly anxious, but that seems like it’s just how it is for me. I try really hard to compartmentalize things, and I even have done meditation at times because I can’t stop thinking, but in the end, it always wins. I obsess and obsess until I get violently sick.
I know there are other things bothering me, but the thing is, as weird as it sounds, I can’t feel it. I’m probably sad about Mike, but I haven’t cried or dwelled on it. I did the same thing with Richard. In fact, I finally just dealt with that about a month ago…and how long has it been now? I cried for an hour and then it was done. I don’t think it’s finished, but I don’t know how to bring it back out. I’m so used to stuffing things down, burying them, that I truly can no longer live in the moment. When I should be happy, I don’t feel it. I don’t even feel sad most of the time. I’m always boringly apathetic or I’m frustrated and angry. Then when I do feel, it’s so much that I can’t actually handle it. But those times when it seeps through are becoming less and less. I know I’ve done it to myself, and in the end, there’s no one else to blame.
I feel like I’ve spent my life looking out a window. I don’t feel like I’ve experienced or been there for most of what has happened. I existed through it, but it was always behind a pane of glass. It rains or it shines. There’s either wet pavement and tall buildings, or trees and grass, but they feel the same from where I’m standing. I can’t smell them or touch them, or understand them. And while everyone else is outside experiencing, I feel chained to my chair. I don’t know how to get out, how to live. I have no idea.
I never feel right at all.