Perhaps my instinct is wired the wrong way
Maybe this is a sign that I should probably talk to a professional, but in my defence, my insurance is still occupied with something at the moment.
I couldn't remember the first time I feel like this; like a fist had wrapped itself around my heart and constricted my chest, hammering as my fight or flight instinct thrum underneath my skin. Most of the time, it's flight: the urge to destroy everything, run away, and start over in my own terms. I guess my head thought that it was a great way to take control, and isn't that a revelation? To know that your greatest fear is losing control of your life the moment you write it down in a blog?
Anyway, anxiety. A very familiar feeling, which probably wasn't a healthy thing to say. Which also probably not the root cause of the problem itself, but that's another can of worms to open. Ideally, I have it under control; my head's been programmed to shut down that part with reassurances the moment it became too much, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was a mere temporary solution to a much deeper problem.
My life has been a bunch of delicate ecosystem strung together with a tightrope, relying on chance and luck and control, and God, I understand how weird that sounds. Once I lost control of an aspect of my life, I ended up running, which what brings me to now: being too panicked to even start making my volunteering project. There's something pressing down at the back of my head, making me even dread to open Canva to edit my workbook. I don't usually have a problem in starting a task, "better to do it and get over it quickly," has been a mantra that kept my head focused for a while now, but such "eh, I'll get over it" mindset can only be used so many times before you start to realise that your heart raced way faster than it should be while you're opening tabs on your browser.
I guess it's manifested in a more grim kind of feeling, the dread rising slowly without you noticing, and when you finally realised that you've practically done nothing this week, it crashed upon you with the force of a scooter-renting tourist in Bali.
I know, by term, that it probably meant something. I know what I'm feeling is not... the most normal thing to feel. But it's what I've known my whole life, and I don't know when to start unpacking it. It'll be worse if I keep this going. I don't know where to start.
This is a grim ending of an entry. Perhaps I should tag it as vent? Idk.
Cheers (and I know how ironic that was),
K.