Crisis

Anxious, smelling smells, strange because I have trouble breathing,

skin slick and sweaty, face hot, feet numb.

No reason, no thought, no incident, no pain.

No trigger, (or is it being on London underground that does this?)

Eyes closing so they can't see me, those workers, tennis players, writers, actors and dancers - productive people all.

It's a sign of being really low when you can't even jeer at the tourists. They must have worked hard to deserve their holiday, and their accents are no thicker than mine.

Calm down, I tell myself. One baby step at a time. But it's terrifying! I'm scared to try anything new, anything creative active or intellectual, because if I give it up in two days, if I fail (and I will fail), then I'll never go back to it. And the pile of things I cannot do will grow even higher, an almost perfect pyramid now. With the bits of dry skin, nail, hobbies, interests and career paths I have discarded over thirty years.

Deep breath. Baby steps.

I used to like writing at one time...