Anxiety Attack

It starts with feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you want to throw up but you know it's just not going to happen. But it lingers, and you just wish you could, or you would... you know...vomit...just to get it over with. But you don't because you're not supposed to do that, right? Unless you have to. Vomiting should not be a choice.

So you go on, paralyzed. You know your job, you know what you're doing. You could kick ass and take care of everything on your work plate in two hours. If you could just start. That's all. Just start.

But you can't start. You only can stare. You can't relax and do something else, because then you wouldn't be doing your job. But you can't do your job either, so you just sit...and stare. And click and click and click.

So you update the blog that no one reads. To get yourself typing, to get y0urself thinking. To limber the fingers and give the brain somewhere to spill its excess...brain stuff. And you wonder why your doing this? Why you're pretending to write for the public, when a private journal would do just fine? You wonder if anyone, besides the three people who you've told about the blog will ever read this? You strategize about how to draw readers to you ... should you tell more friends? Post the blog in the online forums that might as well be a row of shot glasses filled with Grey Goose? Why?

You hope, perhaps, that someone will read this...that someone will understand. That someone will say it's OK and rescue you from this trap. That someone will say, "follow me -- this is where we're going to go...and we'll do great things there."

But there are no rescuers. You know you can only rely on yourself, and if it's not your own decision, your own idea, then, really, it has no meaning for you.

That would be just like you, right?

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