And my feet are slowing down.
Tonight ended with an anxiety attack. I had been fighting internally to stay sane and not go to pieces for a few hours, sometimes successfully, sometimes losing the battle. For whatever reason I ended up wanting to get myself sane rather than actually talk to someone (say my wife, right next to me) about what I was feeling.
Towards the end of the evening, it felt like the inside of my head was screaming with the pressure of an anxiety attack that wanted to take over everything, to the point where it was getting hard to hear anything outside. Hard to hear my wife's conversation.
And then I started slowing down. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I was even able to guide our path. But it was getting harder and harder, and my steps kept getting shorter and shorter. After outpacing me three-four times and not noticing for a while, my wife decided to walk behind me instead, to make sure she wouldn't leave me behind.
Now we're home. I've grabbed one of my anti-anxiety pills, for when I can't quite handle things on my own even if I try. One of the last-resort shouldn't-really-be-taking pills. Getting hold of water to swallow with was a struggle. Calming down my grimacing facial rictus to the point where I could put things in my mouth was a struggle.
And then things got better. I swallowed. I took care of our laundry. My wife unpacked our shopping. So of course, now that I can move again, the feelings of guilt are creeping back in. Guilt for making such a fuss. Guilt for not being able to control my feelings better. Guilt for all the sadness and upset this brings my wife when she has to see me suffering.
Guilt that doesn't help anyone with anything in any way whatsoever.