I, literally, have to get away from everyone and breathe really deeply, like Lamaze, until the overwhelming impulse to bolt passes. It scares me that I even feel this way. My conscience is working overtime to talk me out of insanity. What I wouldn't give to be in my early twenties again. I had my life stretched out in front of me, like a blank slate. Now, I have a past behind me with so many mistakes that it's like a bad essay a high school Lit teacher has hashed through with a red pen.
I am NOT having a pity party for myself. There isn't anything to pity, really. I am not looking for sympathy either. I just feel so stagnantly still, so pointless, it's as if moving would distract me and keep me on a trajectory forward so that I couldn't stay still and think...of all the mistakes, wasted time, fear, missed opportunities, and forks in the road where I so should have turned in the opposite direction of where I did turn.
I feel desperate to be alone, but I can't ever really get that alone time.
(insert expletive here _ _ _ _!)