It’s still here. It feels like there is an elephant sitting on my chest. I can’t make myself focus on anything even though my mind is empty. I don’t understand what is happening. My life is good. I’ve been taking my medicine. I have relatively little stress–well, as low stress as you can be with a toddler. Mom is visiting soon. I finally have the life that I wanted. Why do I still feel so empty?
I used to dream of a life like this. A husband who loves me and never even does so much as raise his voice at me. A child of my own. A house of our own. A place for only love and laughter, no violence and no hatred. A fulfilling job. Relative financial security.
Why am I still so unhappy? Why am I still so exhausted all the time? Why is my chest so heavy. Why can’t I focus?
There is no “big event” that triggered it this time. There was no flashback. There was no panic. There was… nothing.
And yet, here I am, fighting my body, even to type.
I wonder if I should call my doctor. I don’t understand what is wrong with me.
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