That Most Fatal of Human Follies

My head pounds all the time. My jaw wants to crack, but cracking it just makes it worse. Rubbing it leaves it inflamed. Eating makes me feel guilty. The knots between my shoulder blades transfer their tightness to the tops of my shoulders, the back of my neck.

I am not unwell. Not any more. I am just a little unhappy. Unsure. In limbo.

But I am so afraid of becoming sick again that I want to run away from any little struggle that presents itself. A sickness of the mind.

I remember crying, "But I'm not well," to someone I loved, once upon a time, perhaps 18 months ago now, then feeling so guilty for saying it. As if I was blaming erratic behaviour on being sick.

But now I feel as though no guilt was necessary. When I compare my thought patterns now to my thought patterns then, there is really no other way to put it. I was very unwell.

Enough of that. I'm well. Well enough. But now, I'm so afraid of being unwell, that every little feeling of distress, unease, confusion, can send my head into a tailspin.

Should I quit my job? Should I move away? Should I leave everyone I know? Am I making decisions about my life just to run away from everything that's hurt me?

Am I preventing my own happiness by trying to analyse what it is that makes me happy?

Does it matter if something makes me happy?

I want to go back to the place where I felt most comfortable in my own skin. And so I will.