Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Santa sadness

theboy worked it out—and he's only eight.

He's crying. And what was the only thing I could do? Leave the house with my hands over my ears because his crying sets off my fight-flight.

That's living with the damage of anxiety for you. That's what it's like to have a psychological injury, to not be able to do normal things like console your crying child because your animal brain trips into fear and you have to flee. 

I'll have to cower a good ten minutes before risking re-entry. My knee is blaring in arthritic sympathy. 

Super un-powers bite the wang.

UPDATE: Old ladies are firing. Hooray for a spike!

UPDATE2: A cat was in the yard and one of mine started yowling at it through the screen door, a horrid yowl that set my nerves jangling. I had to dash out of the shed and shoo the interloper the fuck off. Argh, the yowl is imprinted on me. Fucking anxiety.  

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