I should be happy. Relaxed, even. I should be able to go to bed at night and sleep with little worry.

I can’t. The anxiety, it just gnaws away at me. It’s like a kaleidoscope of images all swirling about in my mind constantly telling me I’m not good enough, that I will let the side down, that I can’t compete, that I can’t fight back. My house of cards will tumble.

Arthur Rackham

Who cares for you? You’re nothing but a pack of cards!

Ironically this comes after what has been a relatively stable period, considering the messiness and drama of last year.  Work is stable, though the volume has not noticeably dropped. My relationships are good – thriving even. I’ve had a lovely break with the people who love me. However, it also exhausted me. Being constantly in company shatters my nerves. Not having  our own space. Death by crowds.  There was no respite.

But still, I find myself questioning me.  I find myself wanting. I’m just not good enough. A head on spin cycle. Sleepless nights again. So much for the sleep therapy course! The only person who can stop this negativity is me. And as Duran Duran (of all people said), I’m on a ride and I wanna get off, but they won’t slow down the roundabout.

(I didn’t steal the Renoir or the TV set, but that’s another story).

Yours, queasily, from the centrifugal force vortex.


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