Today,
I am anxious and worried.
I am unsettled and “on edge,”
I am terrified because I feel “it” coming.
I am on the cusp of another anxiety attack.
I am about to weather another cold, dark and dismal depressive storm.

I work.
I cook,
I clean,
and while I sometimes forget to do the dishes or dry the laundry —
while I forget to eat —
I have managed to purge my home,
rearrange the closet,
and clean the bathrooms.
It’s like I’m prepping and nesting.
I’m preemptively taking care of my space.
But I know I can’t keep up this pace.
I can’t outrun it and
I cannot stop it and,
the truth is,
that scares me.
I scare me.
Especially now.
Especially during this storm.

I find myself struggling to catch my breath.
I feel numb and lonely.
I stay in bed more,
but sleep less.
I question my faith,
my value,
my worth.
I cry over stupid ****,
like burnt out lightbulbs and unanswered texts.
I cry over important ****,
like love and money.
And I cry because I am crying.
I become reclusive
because this weather makes it easy to isolate myself.
I look for any and all the excuses I can—
the excuses I long for —
the excuses I need to cancel plans and just hide beneath the covers.
I am a chemically and emotionally imbalanced mess.
But what can I do to stop it?
How can I save myself?
I can’t.
I can run
and work
and take my medication,
but I cannot do one **** thing to stop this storm,
nor can I avoid it.
All I can do is hold on and wait for “it” to hit.
All I can do is hold on and try:
try to brace myself and trudge through,
try to keep myself accountable and afloat.
All I can do is breathe and weather yet another storm.