At 11:36 on a Wednesday.
I know what you're thinking. "Score!"
But no. I'm not home for a good reason. Not because I took a vacation, or because I'm sick (necessarily), or because I'm playing hookie. But because I just couldn't go. I couldn't do it.
Which is not the same as didn't want to. Although it's true, I certainly didn't want to. But ultimately I guess I did want to - if the thought of it didn't induce vomiting.
And it's not the same as wouldn't go either. Because I would have. If I could have. It wasn't a refusal, really. It was more of an inability.
And it's not even the same as shouldn't go. Even though for sure you shouldn't go to your office and interact with your colleagues if you're doing it with a scrunched up crying face and clutching your chest. It scares people.
So that leaves me with couldn't. Couldn't go.
I tried to get up. I really did. But I was paralyzed by... by... what? Fear? Yeah. Anxiety I guess. I got dizzy and my heart picked up speed and my chest started to hurt.
I know what you're thinking again. "Oh my god! Go to the hospital! You're having a heart attack!" It isn't a heart attack. I'm 27 for godsake. If I was having a heart attack at age 27 I would have bigger problems than this.
But I don't have bigger problems than this. This is my biggest problem.
An unidentifiable, indefinable, seemingly insurmountable Anxiety and Depression that kicks my ass whenever I think I might have beaten it.
Me: Well, I've been feeling ok.
A&D: Yeah, you got me... I'm done for.
Me: I know you're there, but I can work around you. You're not so tough.
A&D: GOTCHA! *unexpectedly hits me with a giant roundhouse kick to the head*
Me: F-ck. Ow. That f-cking hurt, you asshole.
A&D: Don't call me names. You're the crazy one.
So here I am, on my couch, nursing my roundhouse kick wound.