I’m well settled into the schedule of two treatments a week now. Tuesdays and usually Wednesdays for an hour each, still bi-lateral.
Alas, I have my anxiety back. Not as bad as it was, but it’s getting to the stage of me being too fraught to front appointments. I cancelled a myotherapy session yesterday, because I was late getting to lunch, and couldn’t face the rush of eating, then driving admittedly only 1km to the appointment. Dammit, this is not on! Not on at all.
A reminder that I have well and truly slipped with my visualisation, and breathing techniques. Time to use my hour in the chair to get that going again. If I don’t own my own doing in this situation, I’m a fool. I have chosen, over the past few weeks, to skitter away from writing and art time, and use it to go out in the world. Mainly to drag around shopping centres and do nothing with my days, then call myself busy. What am I distracting myself from?
Certainly the uncomfortable fact that my writing is going nowhere much, and I have not fulfilled my hopes and dreams for myself. Getting published professionally in a newspaper at the age of 17 was heady, and head-inflating. I’m surprised my ego fitted through doors. However, I have not carved out the shining, award-laden career I thought I would. And now anxiety has seen to it that it’s difficult for me to settle to writing sessions. And when I do, I tell the story in the first draft, and my mind says ‘done with that story now, on with the next one’. Rewriting, and crafting, and submitting until publication – not part of the deal. And I’m not just being babyish about it. I have real weird blocks here. Possibly a pouty toddler or teenager moping that ‘the story’s done and if it’s not perfect first time out, well, leave it behind’.
Anyway, this is all to say that anxiety is starting to creep back, and it’s impacting, and has greatly impacted, on my ability to write, rewrite, edit, submit, and publish.
Fuck you, anxiety. Settle down.