April 2, 2012: The grip of fear. CWE 184

The grip of fear is as familair to me as the spit in my mouth or the hair on my head. I wake each night, around 3:30 AM, and lay stiff as a board, fretting over one thing or another. Some of my worries are worthwhile. Most are worthless. It makes no difference. Fear and worry are my drugs of choice. I try to dull them with alcohol which works until the next morning, when I wake up wih a splitting headache to accompany the endless worrying.  I lay awake for a few hours each night, holding my worries in my hands and worrying away at them like smooth, warm coins, bright against my palms. My mind plays the same recordings over and over. They are my lullaby, but the bitches don’t put me to sleep.

I have been afraid forever. I don’t believe that I’ve ever not been afraid, and if things are going along a little too calmly, I create a situation that will permit worry.

An early fall night ended with the normal theatrics in my childhood. Screaming, crying, slammed doors. Sometime during the night, I rocked myself down the hall, half asleep and knocking my shoulders against the narrow corridor. I threw up in the bathroom and put myself back to bed before I woke anyone.

In the morning, the bathroom looked like a war zone. Blood covered the walls and floor. I’d thrown up blood during the night and never knew it as I knocked around in the dark.

I couldn’t make it through a day without fear. Fear is like breathing for me, and nothing can replace breathing.

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