I’m not so sure of much anymore. My inability to deal with stress is making me lose interest in dealing with much of anything. The pressure comes lapping back up to me like a slow rising tide. There are times in my day that my breath becomes so shallow that I breathe deep, a light rush makes my head swim. I spend most of the day tonguing the back of my teeth – hiding my nervous ticks – pushing and feeling for possible pocks of tooth decay, brushing the sharp edges of my teeth, feeling for changes, evenness of my lower row. It runs up and down and across, a rabbit leading a dog in a sprint, numbing the tip of my word-former.
Get a grip.
I know what you are thinking: what do I have to be stressed about? I’m not sure of it myself either.