The thing about anxiety is that you can't reason or think your way out of it. My chest feels like it is full of rocks, I am having trouble breathing, my palms are sweaty, and I keep retching up nothing - it is like my body wants to get rid of whatever it is that is holding me back from being a successful human being, that feeling of heaviness deep in my back, the one that makes it hard to get out of bed or open the Judith Butler, the one that makes it hard to eat. I keep forgetting to eat.
I'm not sure why I'm so anxious recently. One of my comprehensive papers is due tomorrow (I just answered my question, probably, but my anxiety is more than that, it is about other things I don't want to talk about) and I keep reading and re-reading it, feeling incapable of synthesizing my ideas into lucid prose, words that make sense of what other people have been writing for the last 200 years. Writing a field paper feels like such a futile exercise, I just want everything to line up beautifully and for the connections to reveal themselves in my words but, unfortunately, cultural theory doesn't allow that, cultural theory is a tricky bitch.
When I am this anxious about life it manifests itself in imaginings, thoroughly unproductive fantasies; my mind lingers to people it shouldn't, I invent things and looks and desires to make myself feel better, when, realistically, no one is out there giving a shit. Or maybe the anxiety is a result of those fantasies? I don't know. I understand how self-centered I sound but if you can't be self-centered on a blog where can you. I am having trouble being an adult, and will instead curl up in bed and watch Sons of Anarchy and let my cat roll up in my hair and wait for the dizziness to pass.