I don’t know why this feels like a confession, but the title of this post came from this horrible book I have about dealing with anxiety–horrible because it is poorly written and disorganized and repetitive and never gets around to its supposed point–but sometimes my mom is not available, so the first place I turn when life is getting to me and I’m starting to feel panicky is a book, of course, usually poetry, but when I’m desperate, this wretched thing.
It’s funny to me how anxiety producing this statement actually is. Your life is at stake, run! hide! wake up sweaty and unable to breathe! Nice, anxiety book, nice. It is so true though, I just can’t ignore it. It is difficult to figure out how to be happy and enjoy your life and do something that feels like progress and how to afford it all. It is utterly overwhelming sometimes. But the more I think about this, life being at stake, the more I feel like I owe it to myself to take risks and make mistakes and sort of put my heart on the table next to the carving knife and hope it keeps beating.