Morning is the worst of it.
Before anything has happened, before I’ve moved, before I’ve even fully opened my eyes — it’s there. Screaming anxiety. Not a thought, not a worry. A presence. Loud. Immediate. Unavoidable.
It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t build. It arrives fully formed, like something already in motion before I wake. My chest tight, stomach uneasy, mind already scanning for something to attach it to.
But there is nothing.
Just this raw, internal noise.
Everything feels wrong. The day ahead feels heavy before it has even begun. Getting out of bed feels like stepping into something hostile. There’s no clear reason, no clear target — just a sense that something is off, and I am already behind it.
This is the part people don’t see.
By the time I’m up, dressed, speaking normally, it’s already been a fight. The outside looks calm. Inside, it’s been loud, relentless, and exhausting from the first moment of consciousness.
And then the day begins.
Leave a Reply