I have to keep telling myself it’s okay.
Oh, but I feel terrible!
You’re okay… please stop worrying, I tell myself.
But this morning, Mr Anxiety, the grey haired old man with the merciless, knobbly walking stick is poking me with it in the brain. So now it kind of feels a bit like mush.
I have a feeling in my stomach. The kind that zings around, unsettled like a bat out of hell. But it’s okay.
Today I have to travel back over 200 miles away to university, to complete the term. It’s been a great year I have to admit.
I pushed myself to the max, as I always do. And I’m proud of it. But I feel very, very tired. It drains the energy from you, to live with anxiety constantly. No relief from the ailment. No release from the prison.
Occasionally I will miss something someone said. I find it hard to concentrate, because my mind is running at a hundred miles an hour to get away from Mr Anxiety, who is quite relentless with his bloody walking stick.
Today, the Grey Cloud of Fear travels with me as my train speeds towards its destination, unhindered, proudly gliding along the countryside like Casey Junior as if to say ‘I thought I could, I thought I could’.
I think I can, too.