There's a sort of achey breathless weight in my chest that I'm not totally comfortable naming right now

Hi diary

Well, this has been pretty weird, hasn't it. i'm hiding out from covid in an apartment furnished by my company because my normal apartment's space and wi-fi capabilities are laughable at most. i have to go up there about once a week to check my mail because forwarding addresses for the duration of a national emergency doesn't really have a solid precedent in the USPS.

the apartments are unsettlingly big for one person, and I've also realized that they're kind of unsettlingly big for two people. we've set up in the living room where we do our best to stay productive in a traumatic bewildering environment (the current administration)

when we want to be unsupervised we hide in the other bedroom like i am doing now.



I think anxiety - my anxiety - seems to thrive best in routine. when everything is upside down and on fire, I'm fine. i have a plan, and i'm able to figure out where to next put my feet. when it's a matter of knowing that the plans are changing constantly and that i just have to stay on top of what the next step is going to be, it's fine. it's almost a relief when everything goes to hell.

(the fact that my contingency plan has always included suicide, for when everything is truly fucked beyond what I see my capabilities, probably has to do with that, to be honest. at this point it's more of a well-trodden path in my brain than a real plan. why am i trying to convince my blog, readership 0, of my mental well-being. it doesn't matter. this part of me will always make people vaguely uncomfortable and I can, haha, live with that)

But when we have a plan, when there's a solid day to day routine, my ability to cope with anxiety takes a nose dive.

brains are weird, full of expectations.

all i have to do is make sure I don't let mine shoot me in the foot