My eyes dart forward to the bottom of the screen, the suspense is building and I can’t help myself. I thank god — whom I don’t believe in that there’s a Kindle in my hand instead of a paperback. There’s less for me to know, less to worry about. And I drag myself back to the second paragraph. First line.

Let’s do this again, shall we? I blow air out instead of sucking it in.

I’ve been feeling sick all day. A touch of nausea, intermittent claustrophobia, and some twisted knots in my stomach. Classic Anxiety starter kit. I make things easy for myself. Trim my nails because they’ve been bothering me. It’s quite dry under them and I need to moisturize.

I turn the sound on my phone, for the first time in two weeks, because the taps soothe me. It makes my typing feel more real as if my words weighed more. It has value, I repeat to myself, every task you do, every line you type.

Simulated rain sounds play in my ears because I loathe the silence of these nights. My dilemmas loop and echo, and I want to drown them out. Also in urban dwellings, things never really get quiet. Someone is scraping a wooden chair on the floor at 3 a.m. and the unwanted sound triggers me.

I’ve been teaching myself to enjoy the little things lately. After two weeks of solid low, I’m swimming ashore. Handling myself with care, I’m trying to go with the flow. Silencing the mocking laughter in my head, I’m reiterating to myself that I’m trying my best. Maybe it will work this time.

I made my bed today. Not perfectly but everything’s in place, where they belong. Showered, uncluttered my to-do lists, and planned the rest of the week. I thought I would be gasping for air, but instead, I feel suspended.

It’s weird and I can’t tell if what I’m trying to do is working. As stated above, I’m not very good at waiting. I eagerly, obsessively want to skip to the end.

The moon’s appearing in the evening these days, right around sunset. Instead of late-night rises, as I prefer. I took a picture this evening, the sky was pink, more so if I squinted and a few clouds scattered like rigger brush strokes. Such a cliché. Sometimes they are good — they feel like normal.

I take pride in knowing what’s going on in my head. I kind of have to, given the time I spend inside it. Yet two weeks ago, just like the spots of blood on my bathroom floor, it came unannounced. No thunder, no warning.

I haven’t been wrecked like this in a while. I’ve been busy, it’s been one thing after another, since the pandemic lull. Life’s asked too much of me. I just wanted to rest. But as I’m often reminded, you can’t plan a calm.

My eyes are dry, especially the right one. I have a theory that I use it more than the left one, just like my hands. I’ve been dropping eight drops every night, trying to keep up with the insomnia. I stop myself from wanting another smoke. It’s adding to the sickness. I watch YouTube shorts instead.

I think about all the doing and undoing I do every day and counting it has been bringing a strange sense of peace. Like carrying my water bottle from my bedroom to the living room and back. The number of times I put on and take off my sweatshirt because the weather’s been odd. It’s hot and cold and windy. No time for spring, we’re jumping straight into summer here.

It’s time for drops again, I can’t bear it anymore. The glare isn’t comforting. But it’s better than the silence. The little green bottle says “refresh” and I wish the few minutes of relief would last. I shut my eyes for the length of a song. It’s enough, I comfort myself. Don’t think about the next thing.

When I was wading through the fog, I longed for pain. And now I’m praying for it to stop. Give me some time, at least a short break, please.

Skipping over my painfully curated playlists, I select another one of rain mixed with sad songs. The comments section is validating, reminding me that I’m not the only one who feels this way. If only people said these words in real life when they weren’t armed with the anonymity of the Internet.

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I’ve been absent. Not sure if anyone noticed, but I did. I haven’t been writing as much and was barely able to meet February’s goals. I was supposed to do more and writing was going to add to the glorious list. It wasn’t. Nothing is ever enough. I can barely call this month — average.

Reading offers a familiar escape, surprisingly not adding to the pain. Maybe I should feel bad, as I’m reading someone else’s poignant and captivating words while mine read like a diary entry. Or so I’ve been told.

Taking a break from the classics, which take forever to read, I’ve been turning through easier compilations at a blazing speed. I always want to know what happens next. The words flow making up a damn good visual.

I used to have a list somewhere and then deleted it one anxiety-ridden afternoon. Making up for lost years, I can’t call myself a writer if I haven’t read the masterpieces. Now I Google vacation reads for 2023. A part of my mind may be trying to trick me and make this phase feel like a break, but I know what it is. I’m giving myself neat little achievable goals. I need a win.

Words pour out of me, after weeks of being muddled in the cloudy horizon. I’m not ready, she whispered into my ears. Delete your ideas, those notes you made while feeling inspired. Maybe sharing them on the internet will do some good. It doesn’t make much sense. These stories are better untold.

Doesn’t writing in-depth about self-love when you’ve never hated yourself more make you feel like a fraud? It does. They won’t come out, I know.

The ink’s returned to my pen after days of shaking it, and its darkness scares me. The darkest shade of red looks like black. It bleeds onto the paper as if it always belonged there as if I was the one keeping them apart. I don’t know how long this spurt will last, or if it’s just a one-time thing.

I remember the time I wouldn't get out of bed — wouldn't get started without a pretty big realization. If nothing is going to change, if I can’t grow then what’s the point? The truth is, I don’t know anymore. I need to keep trying.