I’ve ran so hard the past few days, I can’t even walk — between the soreness of my legs and the heat rash all over my body. I’ve ran for a couple reasons. Mostly because my life is shit. But mainly, to quiet my head. It’s the only thing that seems to calm the anxiety that plagues me. Anxiety that’s so bad, I fear everything. The phone. The mail. Noise. I don’t even listen to sports talk anymore — sound aggravates my nerves. The only thing that calms me is walking,running and absolute quiet. My chest pains have been back since Saturday and my throw up spells for a day and a half.
So I run.
I run like if I run hard enough God will see that I really do want — and deserve — a different life.
I run like I want Him to see that when I witness things like Cory Booker and Elizabeth Warren giving speeches that sound EXACTLY like something I’ve spent the last three years writing — that I understand He has something big for me. Like, I’m wasting my life not being a speechwriter and I just need the opportunity.
And yesterday, I felt like I was trying to subconsciously kill myself of a heatstroke because I can no longer tolerate the anxiety attacks that are so paralyzing that it seemed easier to run until I dropped. That way, if they found me dead, it would be an accident, and those that are mean to me wouldn’t get the satisfaction of saying, “See, we tried to tell you she was crazy.”
Most days, the fear is so overpowering — it is truly the most frightening thing I’ve ever experienced, it is spells of nausea and heart palpitations that feel like death is coming, just seconds away — that the only thing that calms me down is thinking of my twin lovies. I tell my heart, “Stop racing, calm down, deep breath — if you have a heart attack, your twins might not grow up Vol fans.”
And that seems to stop the spells. But every time my Memaw stresses me out, I have attacks again.
I haven’t slept more than two or three hours at a time in two weeks. That’s fine. I’ve been an insomniac for almost two decades — I don’t need sleep. But this lack of sleep, however, is caused by nightmares. The same one, over and over. I’m trapped inside a movie theater and I can’t get out. Running, running, to no avail and — no idea why — my brother is chasing me the entire time. I run past horrific scenes. At one point, I start flying. Which I hate. That’s when this voice tells me that I can put a stop to the nightmare if I just wake up. Only I can’t. I try so hard, in my dream, to tell myself, “Wake up, Candi, wake up!” except I can’t.
Until I do.
And then, it’s both terrifying and puzzling.
I’m gripped with irrational fear and afraid of everything. Except the girl who honked at me for letting an elderly lady turn in front of me two days ago. Her, no — I threw the car in park in the middle of the road and got out to see if she wanted me to kick her ass.
How can you be afraid of a knock at the door, but not of a fight and kicking someone’s ass? It’s lunacy.
I’m living on a wire hair trigger and have been joking for a year that Donald Trump’s presidential candidacy was going to, inevitably, land me in a padded room.
Has it almost really? And is that even possible?
The only thing that gives me hope, is this election. And seeing politicians recite words on the biggest stage of their careers that seem like they’ve read my blog over the years — hey, Cory Booker does follow me on Twitter — at which time I know, God meant me for big things.
I just don’t know why I’m so nervous, fearful, and full of the throw ups all the time anymore. I just can’t take one more person being mean to me right now, so I just fear them all.
Except Trump. Him I willingly want to tangle with.
That hamster-headed orange taint is killing me. Slowly.
I need prayer and a holistic healing.
I know I’m not the only one in the world who has experienced anxiety spells like this, no?
And it all started with “Make America Great Again.”
That quesadilla-faced f-cker.
I’m headed for a straitjacket and it’s likely the fault of Agent Orange.
*Note: Oh, and thank you to Chris and Toni Woodard, Misty Mahan Dantico, Joey Hilliard, Carla Tummins Howell, or which ever one of the scarily obsessed with me skank cyberstalkers reshared my “I’m having a heart attack” post. With every copy and paste you reshare, you prove what the entire world knows to be true: Even on my craziest, worst hyperthyroidism day, you won’t ever be me on your best — you, sad, sad overweight Ooompa Loompa lump of white trash.
I cannot believe how important I am in your life.
I pray for your children. It must suck to have someone so scary as a parent. As I’ve said before, jealousy doesn’t look good on anyone. And you people reek of it.
These people are so intellectually dented that they STILL don’t get that if I post it, I don’t care if you read it, dumbasses. YOU do not matter to me. You are NOT the mean people I was referring to, assholes. Ha! You people are pitiful.