Itchy

I am writing this and pressing submit, regardless of what follows. I feel absolutely lost. I need to write. I need to find a real job and be a productive member of society. I need to go to graduate school. I need to make art. I need to give my labor in exchange for resume experience. I need to move out of my mother’s house. I need to move out of the city. The state. I need to move to Europe. I need to be more original. I need to learn to code. I need to drink water. I need to walk my dog. I need to write. I need to watch that movie. And that one. And read that book. I need to finish this book first, though. I need to get gas. I need to explore my sexuality. I need to text them back. I need to call the dentist. I need to move the furniture from my storage unit. I need to be successful. I need to figure out what that means. I need to give to charity. I need to own property. I need to cry. I need to wake up earlier. I need to invest. I need to travel. I need to finish my film. I need to be present. I need to listen. I need to research. I need to find the answer. I need to meet John Oliver, for some reason. I need to plan ahead. I need to think back. I need to follow my dreams. I need to let go of my dreams. I need to figure out what my dreams are. I need to scream. I need to write. I need to stop writing. I need to stop. I need to stop.

I feel like I am crawling out of my skin today. Last night, I had a small obsessive episode. I file it away as a form of a panic attack, but they feel different. Panic attacks feel like you’re actively dying. An obsessive attack feels like deactivating an explosive. You will die if you don’t cut the right wires. Only in this instance, every time you crack the code, the timer resets, and you have to stop it all over again. They’re itchy.

I was able to catch it and take my medicine before I spiraled too far. My success rate at recognizing what’s happening in the moment has improved, but I’m not batting 1000. Realizing makes it even more aggravating. The jig is up. Without noticing, my stress is confined to the object of my obsession. But once I name the game, the itch starts hopscotching its way around my psyche, trying to find the thing that will make me take the bait. My defences can only stay up for so long. In those moments, I can fixate on anything. And anything always leads back to everything.